


Through the Fog

by ConnorM



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: M/M, eventual shipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-30 00:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6401083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnorM/pseuds/ConnorM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of the Napoleonic wars, Thomas Welch, the young man commanding a Royal Navy sloop-of-war chases a merchant ship through an unusually heavy fog bank, only to discover a new world, impossible beasts, and the beginnings of a war, and manages to entangle himself in things that are far, far above his pay grade. And on an island at the edge of the Berk Archipelago, the impetuous dragon-riders find themselves in over their heads, despite - or perhaps because of - their new allies.</p>
<p>Takes place between seasons 1 and 2 of Race to the Edge</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Headlong Collision

**Author's Note:**

> There is a short glossary of nautical terms at the bottom for those who aren't well-versed in naval jargon. Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

            Commander Thomas Welch looked at his impromptu council-of-war on the quarterdeck of His Majesty’s Ship Cygnet. His first lieutenant, a tall, fair-haired young man named Edward Abernathy had the look of a man trying to suppress his nervousness. The sailing master of the little sixteen-gun sloop, a Mister John Winthrop shared in the lieutenant’s nervousness. After all, that fogbank didn’t seem to be dispersing, despite the steady sou’wester blowing in at ten knots or so.

            It was fairly calm and warm, for September in the North Sea. They’d been chasing a French merchantman, or perhaps a whaler, for close to three days now, after seeing it flee Lovund while they themselves had tried to replenish supplies, and if his estimates were correct, they were perhaps a hundred miles off the coast of Tromso. Whereupon the little ship slipped into the fogbank that had the whole crew staring like a pack of startled gulls.

            He smiled at the two other officers, second lieutenant Riley being sick and not present at the moment, and he gave them a wry smile. “I’ve never seen two battle-hardened men so afraid of a little fog, Edward.” He turned halfway and softly said to the helmsman, “Bring her eight points to port, if you please, Mister Macpherson.”

            The helmsman gave an “aye-aye, cap’n” as reply in his harsh Scottish accent, and handled the ship’s wheel, causing the ship itself to turn sharply left, into the awaiting fog.

            He gave his lieutenant a light pat on the back. “We’ll be all right, Ed, stop being so superstitious, will you?” and followed it up with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Then his face returned to its neutral, faintly stern mask; the chains of command drew heavy lines on so young a face, but Thomas had been at sea since he was ten, he knew war for all it was, half his life having been embroiled by it.

            He turned again towards Edward. “And one last thing,” he said, “make damn sure that the lookouts keep a close watch. After all,” he raised his voice so that all the men on deck could hear him, “we wouldn’t want the prize getting away from us, now would we?”

            A chorus of resounding “No!” ’s came from each of the sailors. Despite their superstitions about the heavy mid-afternoon fog, not one of them was willing to let such a great prize as a North-Atlantic whaler get away. Coupled with the fact that there were only ninety-seven men on the ship, the prize money from such a capture would likely amount to half a year’s wages, and for a sitting duck of a target.

            The ship moved along the fog. A shout came from the crow’s nest on the mainmast. “Land to starboard!” it cried out. Out of the white haze, a tall, ungainly pillar of brown rock jutted defiantly out of the water.

            “Hard to port!” Welch shouted at the helmsman, who, for his part had already begun spinning the wheel, twisting the ship to the left, narrowly dodging the outcropping. Welch took a deep breath as surreptitiously as he could. “Mister Winthrop! Reef the mainsails and topgallants. Now, if you please, Winthrop!” He ordered, then turned to Edward. “Abernathy, take some men into the longboat, row ahead and take depth readings, I want to know what I’m sailing into, by God!” Both men saluted him and scurried across the deck. The ship’s small boat was lowered by ropes into the water, with ten seamen and the lieutenant in it, and quickly set to a hard row trying to out-pace the ship.

            Welch breathed a sigh of relief as the first measurements were shouted back. The ship had a draught of eleven and a half feet under its current load, which meant that anything below two fathoms – twelve feet – would be too dangerous to sail into. Fortunately, the readings from the longboat were measuring out to thirteen fathoms, well away from the danger zone. Yet that left the perplexing question; why the hell was the middle of the North Atlantic so shallow here? So far as any sailing chart read, there shouldn’t be any random pillars of rock in this part of the ocean. For that matter, the ocean _ought_ to have been too deep to take depth measurements, much less be a measly thirteen fathoms. Unless they were far, far off course from where he thought they were.

            A small bit of panic rose in him. How could he, Edward and Winthrop all be wrong? That kind of fuck-up was what could get an officer cashiered, not to mention what it would do to any chance he had of ever being promoted to post-captain.

            But the panic subsided quickly. He’d simply have to check over his math again. He picked his way to his cabin, grabbed the astrolabe, and walked back onto the quarterdeck. The fog surrounding the ship made the ball of the sun easier to look at, and at 5 bells in the afternoon, the sun should be… Exactly where it was, assuming that they were three days’ sail from Lovund continuously at a rate of about 12 knots at full sail. So why the fog, and why the islets?

            He called over Winthrop, and the grizzled old Boatswain, John Chambers. “I’ve double-checked my calculations, Mister Winthrop, and by all means, that rock should not exist. Any ideas as to what in God’s name is going on?” he asked the two of them.

            “I haven’t the slightest idea, Captain.” Winthrop replied, respectfully.

            “Mister Chambers?” Welch inquired.

            “None sir, although…” The bo’sun trailed off. He flushed slightly at the glare and continuing gesture that Welch gave him.

            “Uh, sir, I think it silly m’self, sir, but it might be Frisland. Sir.” The bo’sun continued in a remarkably underclass accent. Welch raised his right eyebrow up a notch.

            “Frisland, sir, the uh, the phantom island on the Mercator map. I saw ‘t wit’ my own eyes sir, - sure as sure - sittin’ right ‘bout halfway ‘tween Shetland ‘n Iceland, an’ wit’ a heaping lot o’ little islands around it. I ‘unno ‘bout anyt’in’ else the like o’ it, but that’s all I can think of if there’s sometin’ in the middle o’ the ocean. Sir.”

            “Well,” Welch continued, rather skeptically, “Mister Winthrop, keep the longboat ahead of us for the time being, until we can confirm we’ve reentered deeper waters, and have the crews switch out every four bells until nightfall. And Bo’sun,” he looked back to Chambers, “Keep an eye out for this Frisland.” He sighed, and quoted the Bard, “ ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ We would do well to heed that warning.” With that he dismissed the men, and he returned to peering at the fog with equal parts consternation and hidden fright.

            The ship continued its journey into the unnaturally thick fog. Welch had to squash an inner temptation to think it was retreating further from salvation, as well. 

* * *

            “It really is a nice view out here, away from all the others. It’s peaceful.” Astrid said as she and Hiccup sat together on the other side of Dragon’s Edge, watching the sun slowly set across the horizon.

            Hiccup nodded, but he was distant, distracted. She sighed, shaking her head slightly. “Hiccup, if you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I can’t help you, you know.”

            “I know, Astrid, I just… Ugh.” Hiccup grumbled. “I just don’t know what’s going on with me anymore.” He said, gesturing vaguely, before his hand fell back and unconsciously fiddled with the buckles on his armor.

            “Well, what are you thinking?” She asked, trying to pry something more out of the auburn-haired chief’s son.

            “I guess it’s just that every time we get closer, I chicken out, and then we get distant again, then we do it over again. We’ve done it for three years now.”

            Astrid put her head on his shoulder, allowing her hands to play with his hair, braiding it into small knots, and then untying them after. “We’re a good team Hiccup, and I understand what you’re saying,” she turned to look him directly in the eyes. “I _understand_ , Hiccup, I just don’t know why you don’t want us to go any further.”

            Hiccup contemplated that for a moment. He simply hadn’t thought through it all himself, at least not consciously. “It just doesn’t feel _right_. I’m sorry, Astrid, I just panic every time we do, ‘cause I don’t feel like it’s what I am.”

            Astrid gave him a small, wry smile. “That’s alright, Hiccup, maybe you just haven’t found anyone who’s right for you yet. I mean, you had a choice between me and Ruffnut. Not that I want to make Ruffnut out to be worse than she is or anything, but…” She trailed off, and they both chuckled.

            “But in that case the right option presents itself.” Hiccup finished, then sighed again. “I take your point.”

            Astrid gave him another look. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll let you run around a bit, and whatever you decide on, I’ll be here to have your back. We _do_ make a good team Hiccup, and I think that’s more important than you realize. Maybe I’m wrong. Who knows? You might end up with Snotlout.” She teased, and punched Hiccup on the shoulder, provoking an “ow!” from the tall, auburn-haired Viking. Then her face lit up with a mischievous gleam. “Or maybe you’ll end up with Gustav!” she exclaimed. “Odin knows you’re the only one who can tolerate that little twerp!”

            “Yeah, yeah. Let’s not get too carried away here.  I saw you cooing over Heather’s axe! You’ll just end up with her, I’m sure!” He countered, becoming disappointed when she put on a mock-considering face, shrugged, and nodded.

            “I don’t see a problem with that.” She said, and punched him in the shoulder again.

            “Ow!”

* * *

             “I think ye should see this yerself, sir.” Came a voice behind him as Welch stared back across the ocean –and the retreating fog- from his vantage point in the Great Cabin on the Cygnet, his hands interlocked behind his back. He turned around, and raised an inquisitive (and semi-reproachful) eyebrow.

            The bo’sun flushed a bit, a peculiar tint on his war-weathered face, but he continued, laying a battered scroll upon the chart table, unrolling it and holding the corners with the wooden blocks used to represent ships during councils-of-war. “One o’ the men – Seaman McClain – had it wit’ ‘im, sir, an’ says he picked ‘t up in an odd shop in Bristol last we were there, sir. ‘Tis the only thing I could find t’ make sense of the mess, sir.” He handed the captain on of the small magnifying glasses that lay on the chart table, and Welch bent over to examine it.

            It was an old nautical chart, evidently, though heavily faded and even worse for wear. But as he looked closer, between the Shetland Isles and what Welch had to assume were a poorly drawn caricature of the Faroe Islands, was drawn an archipelago, centered on a rather larger central island, entitled “Berk”. Underneath the central isle was a warning, in Latin. His eye strained to read the small, faded text, in no part aided by its Germanic font. “ **HIC SUNT DRACONES** ” it declared. Here, there are dragons. Fantastic.

            He looked up at the bo’sun. “I appreciate the effort you took to find this, Mister Chambers. Give Mister McClain an extra ration of grog, if you’d please, and of course,” he paused for a second, thinking what he might give the man as a token of his gratitude, “You are invited to join the officer’s mess for dinner tonight.”

            “Thank ye, sir.” The bo’sun brought a knuckle to his forehead in salute, and Welch nodded back, dismissing him. He then rolled up the map – carefully, as it was extraordinarily delicate – and left it lying with the other nautical charts on the table, before sighing, and walking out of the room himself.

            “Cap’n on deck!” the bo’sun shouted, as he climbed through the open hatch, and around him officers and seamen saluted, but he made a dismissive waving gesture, as was his custom, saying, “As you were,” while he made his way to the bow of the ship.

            He limped along to Lieutenant Abernathy, who had the watch on the fore quadrant of the ship. He started to say something, but the words died in his throat as the Lieutenant lowered his spyglass, his face ashen pale. “Something a-matter, Edward?” he asked his friend.

            “I don’t believe it, Tom. I don’t believe my own eyes.” He said quietly, handing over the telescoping lens. “Two points off the starboard bow, maybe five leagues.” He gestured slightly, as Welch took the glass up to his left eye.

            Near to the horizon, there was a small ship’s sail, the vessel had to be tiny, half or more of it hull-down even from this distance, and it only had a single, old-style square sail, the kind that hadn’t been used in Europe for five hundred years or more after the invention of the mizzen gaff-and-boom and later fore-and-aft rigging. The ship, simply put, looked like it belonged more in a children’s book about Vikings and knights in shining armour than it did in the real world, much less the year 1805.

            But even that wasn’t what had caused Edward Abernathy to doubt himself. It was the creature on the top of the ship, a thing of red and black, with an off-white belly, that caused the consternation. “Hic Sunt Dracones,” Welch murmured, shaking his head in wonderment. “I’ll be damned.”

            “Ought we tell the men, sir?” Abernathy asked him.

            He nodded. “Yes, and get all the men on deck.” He said, then continued, “It’s your watch, Ed, you do the honors.”

            “Sail ho!”

* * *

             “Do you have it yet?” Hiccup shouted to Snotlout from his saddle on the back of Toothless.

            “Yeah, we’ve got it. It isn’t polite to shout at people, Hiccup!” Snotlout shouted back.

            The six dragon riders were each busily tying off one rope or another to the harnesses on their dragons. Johann the Trader’s ship had gotten stuck on a submerged boulder, fortunately (for Johann, at least) within sight of Dragon’s edge, leading Hiccup to grudgingly accept responsibility for rescuing him. And, given his help in finding Dagur, even withholding his usual circumlocution, Hiccup found a way to save the ship, too. Unfortunately, that meant that the riders had been working all day trying to find fastenings that would allow all of their dragons to lift at the same time. Hiccup knew it was possible for dragons to lift up a ship – he’d used that trick before – but the last time he’d done it, he’d had dozens of dragons, not five.

            But at last all of the ropes were securely fastened to the dragons. “Alright everyone, pull!” He commanded, and the five dragons lifted into the air at once. The ropes creaked as they strained taught, but held (this time), and the ship slowly tottered its way off of the rock.

            “A little more up, guys,” he said, trying to get the ship fully off the rock before moving it laterally, and with that accomplished, shouted, “Okay, let’s take it back to Dragon’s Edge.” And with that, they were off. Almost.

            Just before they landed the ship, on a field next to a steep cliff drop-off, with the dragons already straining and panting, one of the three ropes attached to Hookfang came undone. The sudden increase in pressure on the other two ropes caused both to snap in rapid succession, causing Hookfang and Snotlout to buck into the air, and causing the other four dragons to lurch downwards, rapidly. The ship landed – hard – onto the meadow, causing Johann, who had been watching the proceedings, to scramble forward in panic, tugging on the ropes in vain trying to prevent his precious ship from tipping over the edge. The four remaining dragons also landed, and helped him, straining themselves further trying to bring the ship to a safe spot. Hiccup dismounted, adding his own, if relatively feeble, strength to the endeavor, and he was quickly joined by Astrid in turn, then Fishlegs, Ruffnut and Tuffnut.

            The ship slowly ploughed a furrow into the soft soil of the field, creaking the whole way, and after he was confident it was no longer teetering on the brink, Hiccup waved the others off, dropping his rope and sinking to the ground. He took a few seconds to catch his breath, rubbing his rope-burnt hands, and glared up at the hovering dragon, and more precisely, the useless, arrogant, thick-skulled dragon rider perched in the dragon’s saddle.

            “You could have helped us, Snotlout!”

* * *

              Thomas fell heavily onto his hammock-strung bed. Whatever had happened to the Viking ship and dragon both were beyond him. By the time he’d finished explaining to the men that they’d somehow stumbled into an archipelago that hadn’t been reported for four hundred years or more, and that multiple officers had confirmed sighting, of all things, a dragon, the watch had lost sight of both. The wind had slackened, and they were only doing four knots or so, so he decided to retire to his cabin and get some rest. It’d take them four or five hours to get to the place where they’d sighted the dragon, any ways.

            Sitting on his bed, he loosened the straps connecting his left ankle to the wooden foot he’d taken to wearing, rubbing the stump where his foot used to be. The stump always annoyed him when the barometric pressure dropped. It had proven a useful –if painful- skill, since he need not read the barometer to know when a storm was approaching. He shuddered, remembering the action aboard the _Orpheus_ that gained him his rank and lost him his foot.

            _Orpheus_ was a fifth-rate frigate of thirty-two guns and two hundred and twenty men, and she’d been attacked by a French fourth-rate man-of-war of fifty guns and three hundred and fifty men off the coast of St Vincent. Welch had been a lieutenant then, at sixteen, he’d just passed his lieutenant’s exam less than a month before the action, and Edward had still been a midshipman. Early in the action, the captain had been killed by a shard of the shattered foremast, the first lieutenant had been killed by grapeshot soon thereafter, and the second lieutenant had been hit in the stomach by a musket ball perhaps halfway through the battle. Command had devolved onto him, and his ship had somehow managed to dismast the man-of-war’s foretopmast and mainmast, which, by the weight of the rigging connecting it, toppled her mizzenmast as well. After that, he’d laid _Orpheus_ alongside her stern, and peppered the ship with cannon fire until she’d struck her colours and surrendered.

            Unfortunately, just before the fourth-rate surrendered, a carronade chaser cannon on her quarterdeck had fired, striking the bulwark of the _Orpheus_ and sending a ten-inch long splinter of wood through his left boot. The pain and blood loss had knocked him quickly after that, and he’d woken up with a brevet promotion in the sickbay, without a foot. After that incident, he’d commanded _Cygnet_ for two years, taking Edward on as his first lieutenant.

            Most of those two years had been the long and boring job of escorting convoys, they’d made the trip to India twice, and to America once, but occasionally, as now, they were allowed to roam freely, taking any enemy merchant ships they could find. Which led him to now, trying to catch a few hours’ rest and wondering just how everyone on his ship –including him- had gone mad at the same time. Dragons? Hah. Ridiculous.

* * *

             Welch awoke with a jolt. Specifically, it was the jolt and creak of copper plating on a ship’s hull being scraped off by a reef or iceberg. He was still wearing his uniform in his bed, just without his shoes and his wooden foot. He sighed, resigned to figure out how bad the damage was going to be, and see if it could be repaired while they were underway. If they could find this phantom “Frisland”, they could hopefully slap on a makeshift repair and sail to the Orkneys. Kirkwall ought to have a drydock large enough for a brig, and if not, they could careen the hull in the harbour and patch it up. He put on his shoe, strapped the wooden foot on, clambered out of bed, and hurried out of the cabin, down the stairs towards the hold.

            John Eriksson, the carpenter’s mate was already there, and with the assistance of two other seamen, he was nailing boards over the three-foot wide jagged hole that was pouring water in.

            “Abernathy!” he shouted behind him, to where Edward had just arrived. “Detail the gun crews on the pump, I’d rather us not founder just yet, aye?”

            “Aye-aye sir, I’ll have ‘em do that.” His breathing was a little ragged, he must have been in the crow’s nest – or at least the fighting tops – when they hit the rock.  Despite everything, Welch was pleased at the evidence that even his officers managed to keep up their alertness. “You should know, though, sir, we’ve spotted land on the horizon, shouldn’t take us too long to reach.” Edward continued

            “Good, now get those pumps started.” He replied.

            “Aye, sir.” Edward saluted, then hurried up the staircase, bellowing orders as he went.

            “How bad is it, Mister Eriksson?” he inquired.

            “Ragged, but after I get this last one!” he stopped talking, swinging the mallet at the thick copper nail the other sailor was holding above the last board. It drove through, and slowly, the amount of water ebbed and subsided, mostly. “Pardon, sir. It’ll be ugly, and I’ll need time ta fix the damn thing once we get into a port, but it’ll hold for now, ‘least after I put some pitch on it.”

            “Aye, do that, we’ll bring her to the land we just sighted. Might have to careen her though. We’ve enough timber to fix her, though?” he asked the carpenter.

            “I’ll have to see the hole from the other side o’ the hull. We _ought_ to have enough, but some of these planks are dry-rotting anyways, I’d rather take out a few more if’n we’re gonna repair her anyways.”

            Welch nodded. Dry-rotted timbers were always a danger for ships. Hopefully, the island would have some oak that they could cut and fashion. In order to get to the damaged area, they’d have to careen the hull – that was, to redistribute the ballast, and tip the ship almost fully on its side, so as to repair the hull, or clean the copper plates that protected the hull from barnacles and shipworms. He hated to put green timber on his ship –it dry-rotted within as little as two years- but they had to furnish a way to at least get the ship to Kirkwall, the nearest harbour capable of repairing a brig-of-war.

* * *

            The small, dark-scaled dragon woke Hiccup up in the early hours of the morning. More specifically, the little Night Terror, after failing to wake the dragon rider with a shriek, woke up the much larger black dragon hanging bat-style from the rafters, who proceeded to wake Hiccup up by jumping on him.

            “Ow! For Odin’s sake, Toothless! D’you have to do that every time?” he shouted as he catapulted awake. The youthful Viking blinked as the blanket fell from his chest, cold air replacing it, and blinked and rubbed his eyes in the pre-dawn twilight. Toothless usually didn’t wake him up before dawn unless something important was going on. Then he saw the little Night Terror. It gestured with its head to the wooden door of his cabin. Hiccup sighed, and grabbed his red long-sleeved shirt from the side of his bed. One or the other of the Night Terror sentries must have spotted something. He opened the door, letting even colder wind through, and shivered.

            Just above his hut, the flock of Night Terrors started their usual game of charades. They formed into a mock-up of a ship, hovering over the Edge, then formed a great arrow pointed southward, towards where the dragon riders had rescued Trader Johann’s ship the day before.

            Hiccup was thrown for a loop. At first, he thought it might’ve been Johann’s ship, but the Night Terrors knew what his ship looked like. This ship was unlike any he’d ever seen. It had two full masts, and multiple sails on each. From the way they depicted it, it also had triangular sails in the front of the ship, and an extra square sail behind the second mast on a much smaller mast. That sail plan, he realized, would require a lot of men to man it. That was why the Vikings used square sails, a single person could manage the ship – as Trader Johann did – but a ship with that sailing pattern would require dozens of men to handle. He wished that the Night Terrors could give him an accurate depiction of the size of the vessel.

            He walked over to Astrid’s hut. To his surprise, she was already awake, taking a whetstone slowly over across one blade of her double-headed war-axe. She looked up, surprised.

            “Something wrong, Hiccup?” she asked.

            “Yeah, the Night Terror sentries spotted a ship on the horizon.” He replied.

            “Just a single ship?”

            “Yep.”

            “Strange,” she said, “that doesn’t sound like Dagur. He’d be bringing his whole fleet if he was trying to attack. Although maybe it’s a scout.” She reasoned, contemplating the information while she continued grating the whetstone across her axe. “No, he should know where the Edge is by now. I don’t think even he’d be stupid enough to lose ships to us one-at-a-time like that.”

            “Which leaves-“ He started.

            “Which leaves the problem of who’s sailing towards us.” Astrid interrupted. She pondered another few seconds, the stone in her hand scratching against the axe with a grating noise that made Hiccup wince slightly. “Well, only way to find out is to go meet them.” She said, and jumped up, startling Hiccup, then pushed passed him and towards the stables where Stormfly was still resting, swinging her axe gaily. She looked over her shoulder at the flabbergasted Hiccup, not breaking her stride. “Well? Are you coming?”

            Hiccup rolled his eyes, but followed. That girl was going to be the death of him. 

* * *

             They roused the other dragon riders. “Ooh boy!” Fishlegs said, when told of the mysterious ship. “I wonder if they’ll know of any more dragons?”

            “Well gang, we don’t know if they’re friendly or not,” Hiccup cautioned,  “so keep your distance and leave the talking to me, please.”

            “Oh come on, Hiccup,” Snotlout put in, loudly, “It’s a single ship. We have dragons. What’s the worst that could happen?”

            “Why is it that something bad always happens when you say that?” Hiccup asked, as he clambered onto Toothless’ saddle. His dragon gave a snorting grunt of agreement, then shook his head and leap into the air. 

* * *

            “Sail – er, _dragon_ on the horizon, sir!” came the lookout’s shout from the mainmast’s crow’s-nest. A small part of his mind idly dealt with what nomenclature they’d have to come up with for the beasts. Hearing ‘dragon on the horizon’ seemed to him like it’d be detrimental to the crew’s morale. Perhaps ‘wing’, to refer to dragons?

            He cut off the idle thought, trying to deal with the approaching threat. The _rapidly_ approaching threat. It wasn’t a single dragon, he realized, and no doubt the watchman on the mainmast was about to shout down the correction. It was five dragons. They were flying in a tight ‘V’ shape, as geese did, only they seemed to be able to make surprisingly good time. He’d estimate, given the dragons’ rapidly enlarging shapes, that they were going at a good forty or fifty knots, even against the wind, which was more than a little impressive. He had no clue whether, like the geese whom they emulated, they’d be docile, though.

            Given the disappearance of the little Viking skiff they’d seen the day before, however, he was going to take no chances.

            “Clear for action!” he commanded, “Reef to fighting sail!  Lieutenant Howard, marines to the fighting tops! Mister Chambers, have the swivels manned!” He then added, a little belatedly, “And not one of you is to fire a shot until I give the word!”

            Activity surrounded him as his officers and ratings repeated his commands. The drummer beat to quarters, and sailors in their off-white uniforms climbed up the lines, hauling in both the fore and main mainsails, tying them to their spars, as other men rolled up hammocks and placed them securely against the ship’s bulwarks. On both sides of the ship, the gunports opened as the muzzles of sixteen six-pounder long guns ran out, and sailors manned the lighter brass swivel guns on the weather deck and quarterdeck. Nineteen men clad in the crimson livery of the Royal marines, with muskets slung across their backs, climbed the ratlines on the rope shrouds spanning down from the fighting tops on the masts to the deck.

            His ship was as prepared as it could be from the unknown threat it faced. He just hoped that these dragons didn’t breathe fire. Knowing the fairy tales - and his luck, at any rate – he was uneasily aware how likely that would be. Fire was more dangerous to a wooden ship than anything else.

            The dragons flew above the ship, circling it in a loose formation. They were just close enough to see-

            He snapped his eyeglass back up, looking at the largest dragon as it circled. The black-bespeckled red beast had what looked to be a person on its back. He swung the spyglass to focus on another one, a tar-blackened thing with a wingspan that looked more like the sails of a fore-and-aft rigged schooner than the wings of any terrestrial animal he’d ever seen. There, he saw the same, a rider. _The beasts are tamed,_ he thought to himself. He wondered if that was a good thing or not.

            “Fire a warning shot, first gun on the starboard battery!”

            “Aye-aye cap’n!” came the bo’sun’s reply as he repeated the order. The first cannon on the right side of the ship belched fire and smoke, sending a six-pound iron ball skipping across the water, and sending a familiar jolt from the deck up his good leg.

* * *

 Hiccup’s eyes widened in shock as one of the machines on the side of the ship shot fire and recoiled inwards, sending what looked to be a catapult’s projectile skimming over the water. Stormfly - likely on her own accord, given Astrid’s protestations – gave it chase, falling out of formation and diving after it. Hiccup rolled his eyes at the dragon’s antics, but he was too pragmatic to complain – Stormfly playing catch, they’d found, was an excellent way of diffusing tension.

            He guided Toothless to a hover just above the open maws of those… war machines, or whatever they were. He raised both hands, holding them up to show that he held no weapons, and shouted to the crew of the giant ship.

            “We don’t want any trouble,” he said, looking towards the man he assumed was the captain – the one who had the fanciest uniform – and shrugged, “We just want to know who you are.” 

* * *

 

Thomas Welch was incredulous. This all had the hallmarks of a drunken, opium-laced dream. Dragons, Vikings, and dragon-riders who spoke English? Simply absurd. But, if absurd, he still had duties as a king’s officer. He thought to take up the voice-trumpet that lay on the quarterdeck next to him, but decided the better of it. The great black beast – it was easy to see how large it was now that it was so close – was hovering like a gigantic kestrel, waiting to pounce, just off the starboard spar deck, with the absurdly young – and annoyingly handsome - dragon-rider perched in a saddle on its back, with his hands raised in a placating gesture. He walked from his usual position next to the wheel on the quarterdeck to the spar deck, close enough to the dragon that he felt the gusts of air washing from its wings.

He called up to the auburn-haired young man, replying; “This is His Majesty’s Ship _Cygnet_ , of the Royal Navy of the Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Commander Thomas Welch, commanding.” (And wasn’t that always a mouthful?) “And who might you be, sir?”

“Me?” the dragon-rider started, “I’m Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the third, and this is Toothless, my Night Fury,” he gestured to the pitch-black dragon, who nodded. “Then there’s,” he pointed to each of the three remaining circling dragons in turn, “Fishlegs, on Meatlug, Snotlout, on Hookfang, the twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, on Barf and Belch, and…” he paused, looking over his shoulder, “Astrid and Stormfly should be back shortly.”

The air on the ship was still tense, his marines with their muskets raised, primed, and at half-cock, his sailors manning the swivels, although none were pointed directly at any of the dragons, each man was rigid, many of them, their brows dripping perspiration. He himself was too out of his right mind to feel any fear of the dragons, but he could hardly blame his crew. Then, an odd, warbling screech, almost like a giant chicken could be heard from behind the young dragon-rider, and a light-bellied blue dragon arrived, with a blonde young –er, he didn’t know if he could apply _lady_ to a woman who was most obviously either a Valkyrie or an Amazon, given how she was brandishing that double-headed axe – and in its clutches, the dragon had a cannonball. His overworked brain noted that it was the same six-pound shot that he’d ordered fired just a few minutes ago. The blue dragon plopped it unceremoniously to the deck, and he winced slightly as it carried enough force to splinter the plank underneath it, but he had spare deck planks in the hold.

The blue dragon then landed on the gunwale, and hopped around, spiky tail swishing, sniffing the men on the deck. It stopped when it saw Richard Callaghan, a twelve-year old boy who’d lived nearly his whole life aboard ship as a powder-monkey (one of the boys who brought ammunition up from the magazine to the guns) and gave him a long sniff, tilting its head, before craning its neck to where it dropped the cannonball, picked it up with its teeth, and placed it – far more gently, this time – at the boy’s feet.

He stared at the cannonball, then at the dragon. Silence lingered for a few more seconds, then he burst out in giggles. “Thanks for returning our… our cannonball!” he said between breaths, “Erm… Ms. Astrid and Storm… fire?” he said hesitantly, looking up at the Valkyrie.

“Stormfly,” she corrected gently, and smiled, hopping down from the back of the beast.

The tension seemed to melt away, washing overboard into the ocean, and the men seemed to collectively relax, like springs uncoiling.

“Have the men at general quarters,” Thomas said quietly to the bo’sun, and gave Hiccup a sweeping gesture to his ship. “You may, of course, land, though I fear we may not have room for all of your compatriots,” he said, then turned to the Valkyrie (he was just going to keep referring to her as that mentally), and bowed, proclaiming, “Welcome aboard the _Cygnet_ , M’lady.”

With that, Toothless landed, rocking the ship slightly, but the ship herself sailed unerringly towards the awaiting island, with her captain and the son of the Chief of Berk conversing as she did.


	2. Action Stations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, this chapter has a bit of violence in it. While I don't think it merits an upgrade to an M rating, if you think it does, you're more than welcome to say so, and I'll be happy to make the change.

Thomas sighed as the last of his men left the “clubhouse” he’d appropriated (at Hiccup’s consent, at least) for his headquarters. Repairing the ship was harder work than he thought it’d be. He glanced out to the bay, where the ship lay on her starboard side.

He’d ordered her to be careened so that they could fix that gash that the underwater pillar had torn into the hull, and by moving all of the ballast and guns to one side of the ship, they’d managed quite handily to get her to lay just right, with her hull exposed just enough to allow them access to the hole.

But careening her also meant that, given how far she was listing to starboard, no one could live aboard ship. He’d ordered tents set up for the men out of the canvas from the sails, but winter seemed to come far too quickly this far north, and despite the fact that it was only mid-September.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, then ran a hand through the curly, unkempt brown mess of his hair. He had always hated how goddamned hard it was to comb any sensibility into his hair, but as of late men of fashion had taken to curly, uncombed hair as a sort of neoclassic revival. It allowed him to appear as though he kept up with current fashion trends, and made his morass perfectly acceptable, even within the stringent boundaries of the Royal Navy’s propriety, when in reality it was simply the only look his hair would take.

The reason fixing the ship was taking so long was that they couldn’t find the right type of wood. _Cygnet_ herself was made mostly of teak, imported from the East Indies by the Company, but the only substitute that could be found this far north was oak, but the only suitable oak tree on the island was apparently of some religious significance to the dragon-riders. Or, at least, so claimed the portly one, Fishlegs. (And he’d thought that “Hiccup” was an odd name!)

At Hiccup’s offer, however, he’d sent out Eriksson, the carpenter’s mate, and Chambers, the bo’sun, on the two-headed dragon with the odd-looking twins to find some oak on one of the other, nearby islands. Hopefully, they’d return within the next day or so, but he was already impatient. Not so much at his hosts – they were quite hospitable, not to mention polite – but at the acknowledgement that hitting that rock meant that the French Whaler most certainly got away from him.

 _Funny, isn’t it,_ he mused, _that I can stumble upon_ dragons _of all things, and here I am moaning about a prize getting away from me._ He supposed it was something that went with being in the Navy. They were all a little bit mad, weren’t they?

The door opened, interrupting his thoughts, and he forced down a temptation to be snappish. Turning around, he found Edward standing with the Valkyrie girl, Astrid, both of whom seemed to be slightly worried.

“What is it, Edward?” he inquired.

Just as Edward took a breath to respond, Astrid interrupted. “Dagur the Deranged’s armada has been sighted by the Night Terrors just off the coast on the other side of the island.”

Thomas frowned, processing the new information. This “armada” was likely to be made of more Viking skiffs, and normally wouldn’t be a credible threat to a proper warship like the _Cygnet_ , but she was currently on her side, with all her crew on land, and none of her guns in position to be run out, she’d be a sitting duck.

He realized that he was thinking in a completely military capacity when technically, he and his sailors were neutral parties to this conflict, but he let that thought die quickly. His hosts had been generous and honorable, and he would do all in his power to help these people. Besides, anyone whose epithet was “the Deranged” was no friend of his.

“Edward, have the men bring the guns, powder, and shot ashore as quickly as possible.” He walked briskly out the door with the two others, standing on the wooden decking and pointing to the spit of land adjoining bay, then to the cliffs above. “I want two batteries of guns, four each, down on the landing there. Make sure they have the lion’s share of grape and case shot, and place the marines with them – I want any landing opposed with as much fire as we can bring to bear. The rest of the guns- hmm…” he left off, pondering the logistics. He’d prefer to place them on the tops of those cliffs, to give plunging fire across the bay, but the men wouldn’t have enough time to drag the guns all the way up there. If the enemy had been spotted on the other side of the island, they’d have at most four hours to prepare.

“Wait, Ms. Hofferson,” he started, turning towards the Valkyrie, “How much can one of your dragons lift?”

She wiggled the axe in her hand. “A few thousand pounds. I don’t know specifically how much, though. Why?”

“If I can get eight of the six-pounder long guns on top of that cliff there, we can sink every boat in that man’s fleet inside of ten minutes.”

She looked surprised by that, perhaps doubtful, but nevertheless she nodded. “Those are the metal war-machines, yes?” She asked. He nodded. “We can get them up there in less than an hour, I think.” She called for her dragon, climbed onto the saddle, then turned and offered a hand. “Welcome aboard,” she mimicked, and Thomas grabbed the proffered arm, swinging himself behind her into the saddle, but unsure where propriety would dictate he place his hands. “Hang on tight!” She warned, and soon they launched up into the air, Thomas quickly grabbing her pelvis – propriety be damned, he was about to fall off! – and turned slightly green with what probably amounted to seasickness.

* * *

Hiccup and Toothless took slow, lazy circles as they flew above Dagur’s fleet. They stayed well out of range of both the catapults and those grappling hook-throwers that Dagur had come to rely on, and kept to the cover of the clouds. He didn’t think Dagur had spotted him, but without the rest of the dragon-riders on hand, he was taking no chances. They flew another circle around, and he counted the numbers of boats and Berserkers on them, peering through the spyglass that Thomas had given him as a token of appreciation for harboring his ship and quartering his men.

Thirteen longboats, he noted, and eighty-four Berserkers divided unevenly between them, along with the red-haired maniac himself. He was tempted to dive down on to that lead ship and just blast Dagur with plasma, and be done with the whole thing right then, but he restrained the urge. No doubt that was exactly what Dagur would want him to do, and he was sure that Dagur had planned for that possibility.

He gently turned the reigns westward, towards Dragon’s Edge. “C’mon, Toothless, let’s go tell the others what we found.” With that, Toothless shot forward, his wings beating as fast a rhythm as he could make them, and he streamed through the sky at such a speed that Hiccup’s eyes started watering from the wind-burn. He should really make something to prevent that. He thought about the glass ends of the spyglass. Perhaps two such lenses, ground straight instead of concave, and secured by leather straps or something…

He’d work on it after the battle, he decided.

* * *

 

 Thomas was uncharacteristically nervous. He’d avoided pacing, but he didn’t entirely like the proposition of fighting “Berserkers” led by “Dagur the Deranged”. His right foot, he didn’t notice, was rubbing against his wooden left foot. Given that these people didn’t know what gunpowder was until he’d shown them, the four six-pounders in each of the four batteries out to come as a nasty shock. Still, he was fighting an unknown number of Vikings, led by a madman, and he had ninety-seven men in all, plus the four dragons that were on hand (three, currently, with Hiccup off scouting for them.), and their respective riders. Four men were required per gun, however, plus both his lieutenants up in the two four-gun batteries up on the bluffs, and with Chambers and Eriksson off finding timber, that gave him thirty-nine fighting men in the hastily thrown-up earthworks on the landing, only ten of whom were musket-armed marines. Twelve of those men were manning the six half-pounder swivel-guns he’d ordered moved onto the parapet, which reduced his effective strength further still. The remaining sixteen men, as well as the thirty-two artillerists and the dozen men manning the swivels, all were armed with cutlasses. And then he had himself, armed with his sabre and two single-shot flintlock pistols.

He had decided to lead from the front, commanding the two batteries on the landing, and the single half-trench his men had managed to dig between them. The land in front of them was covered in cuttings of a particularly nasty thornbush, and the abatis was completed using double-ended stakes that the dragon-riders apparently kept on hand.

A black shadow flew over him, quickly forming into the somewhat familiar, though no less startling, shape of the Night Fury, Toothless. He landed in the clearing just behind the entrenchments, and Hiccup dismounted from him. The chief’s son looked slightly worried, but seemed more surprised at how quickly he’d gotten his men to fortify the harbour.

“I counted; Dagur has thirteen longboats, and eighty-four berserkers in total, excluding himself. They’ll be here in a half hour or so.” He reported to Thomas. Thomas nodded. That would give him rough parity of force down on the landing, which would nominally favor his men, being on the defensive and with earthworks and artillery. But these men coming at him were veteran dragon-slayers, which in turn meant that they’d be tough, and would die hard. Speaking of which, he ought to talk about diplomacy, first, or at least cover his bases about rules of engagement.

“Shall I order my men to fire as soon as Dagur’s fleet is in range, or should we offer parley, first?” Thomas asked.

Hiccup frowned, slightly. “We’re going to give him a chance to surrender himself first.” He said firmly, his chest rising, as though he expected an argument.

“Personally, I agree,” Thomas placated, “But if he fires on my men, or on any of you, for that matter, my men will open fire _immediately_.”

Hiccup looked rebellious at that, but Thomas just shook his head slowly. “You’ve never been in a real battle Hiccup. I know, - I know! - you fought that mountain-sized dragon – and killed it – but that was a fight, Hiccup, not a battle. The only thing that died was the dragon, and the only person injured was you. But a battle is different. People die in battle; lots of them, and in half an hour, if this “Dagur the Deranged” chooses not to surrender himself, a lot of people are going to die. My job, as captain and King’s officer, is to make sure that most of the people who die are his men.”

Hiccup sighed, and nodded. “What are we going to do, then?” He asked, slightly stressing the “we” in his question.

“The way I see it, we can either confront him on dragonback just outside the harbour, but still in range of the guns, and try and convince him to turn around, or we could draw him into the harbour first, fire some warning shots, and demand his surrender. If we choose the former, I think, we’re less likely to see him surrender himself. If we choose the latter, he’ll be more likely to surrender, but if he doesn’t, he’ll have a better chance of landing his berserkers more.”

Hiccup nodded again. “Let’s lead him in, and try to get him to surrender, okay?”

Thomas nodded, although he wasn’t entirely sure what “okay” meant, he’d gathered the sentiment. “Alright.” He smiled wryly, and chuckled. “It _is_ your island, I suppose, now that I think about it. Sorry for commandeering it.”

Hiccup returned his smile. “Just don’t make it a habit,” he pleaded.

* * *

 

Hiccup shuddered slightly as Thomas outlined his plans for dealing with Dagur’s armada. The cold-blooded practicality the commander had was startling, especially to see it in someone Hiccup’s age.

“… So Abernathy and Riley, when we start to engage, I want your first volley to be concentrated on his lead two ships. If we can destroy them quickly enough, the remaining eleven may turn back before they can make landfall. Failing that, focus all your fire on the flagship. It’ll the one with the crazy red-haired man screaming at everything.” That raised a chuckle from the officers. “While the guns are reloading, I’d like the dragon-riders to begin their sorties on the closest remaining enemy longboats. Riley, Abernathy, make sure none of your gunners fire while the dragons are sortieing. Howard, when the enemy lands, I’ll give the signal for the guns to fire. They’ll be loaded with double grape or canister. After the salvo, have your marines fire a musket volley, then charge at bayonet point, and the rest of the sailors in the entrenchment shall follow you. We will drive them back to their ships, and kill or capture all of them who land. Really, we want them to try to turn back. In the confusion, they shouldn’t be able to make headway against the tide, and I want every single one of those ships sunk. Understood?”

A chorus of “Aye” ‘s followed. Thomas lowered his voice. “These bastards have killed entire villages for sport. I don’t want a goddamned one of them to leave this harbour alive.” He said now, “However, we-“ he nodded towards Hiccup “- _will_ give quarter to those who surrender promptly, and we will pluck out the survivors from the sunken ships afterwards. Riley, I want you in charge of the boats after the action, to fish the survivors out of the water.” He was interrupted by Callaghan, the powder monkey, who’d been at the nearby gun battery to serve as a message runner, at need.

“Sir,” came his voice, a little timidly, “The first battery raised the signal; Enemy in sight, sir.”

“Thank you, Callaghan.” Thomas said quietly. He nodded to the officers. “To your stations, men. Dismissed.”

Thomas turned and looked at Hiccup, as Riley and Abernathy climbed onto Hookfang and Meatlug, respectively, who would convey them to their batteries.

“Are you going to be… okay with this?” He asked.

“No, I probably won’t be,” Hiccup replied, “but I’ll do it.” He bent down and grabbed the speaking-trumpet, then turned to climb Toothless. He looked over his shoulder. “You can come with me to talk to Dagur, you know.”

Thomas hesitated, took a deep breath, then nodded. “It’d be my pleasure, Hiccup.” He said. He climbed on behind Hiccup, not sure if he ought to place his hands on Hiccup’s hips, and dreading the possibility that he might.

“You’re gonna wanna hang on,” Hiccup warned the young captain.

“Uh, er… where?” Thomas asked, his hands awkwardly clutching the sides of the saddle.

“Um, my waist.” Hiccup stated, as though it was the most obvious thing.

“I- erm right. I see.” Thomas stammered, then complied, gingerly placing his hands on either side.

Hiccup frowned in confusion, wondering why Thomas was being nervous all of a sudden. He brushed the thought away, figuring it to be nervousness over flying, and moved to concentrating to the task at hand. Without any physical signal from him, Toothless leapt skyward, and suddenly Thomas’ arms were wrapped tightly around his waist, not simply placed on either side. He smiled inwardly at the change, and led Toothless on a set of aerial acrobatics that would’ve rivaled Toothless’ first flight for Astrid. He justified it to himself that he needed to get Dagur’s attention to draw him in, but he knew that it was mostly to mess with Thomas.

Dagur having taken the bait, and his ships sailing at full speed towards the bay, he and Toothless went into a high-speed dive, skimming the water, then looped around vertically until they were hovering twenty feet or so from the crests of the waves. Dagur’s lead ship, with him on it, slowed down to within a hundred yards of them.

“Brother! I’ve missed you!” Shouted the madman.

“Brother?” Thomas whispered quietly to Hiccup. Hiccup turned his head towards him. “He’s not my brother,” he explained, quietly. “He’s just crazy.” Thomas nodded, still whispering. “I see.”

“Dagur!” Hiccup shouted into the voice-trumpet. “Just give up. We have you outnumbered and surrounded.” To emphasize his point, he waved, and the first cannon in Edward Abernathy’s battery fired, sending a column of white water shooting up not twenty yards away from Dagur’s ship. “You aren’t getting out of this one, Dagur. Surrender now, _please_. I don’t want any bloodshed.” Hiccup pleaded.

“What? WHAT?! YOU LED ME INTO A TRAP?!” The madman screamed, his voice quickly distorting from sheer rage. “I’LL SHOW YOU WHAT A TRAITOR DESERVES! KILL ALL OF THEM EXCEPT HICCUP! I'LL KILL HIM MYSELF!” He frothed at the mouth, his face red with rage. He personally snapped the release rope to the catapult on the bow of his ship, sending a two hundred pound boulder hurtling towards his “brother”.

Toothless dodged it with contemptuous ease, though the motion caused Thomas to yelp, and clutch at Hiccup’s waist even harder. “Let’s get out of here, bud!” Hiccup said to Toothless, who swooped away and sped towards the earthworks on the landing.

Guns started firing from the bluffs, their muzzles spewing smoke and hatred as they recoiled, sending iron balls smashing into the timber – and men – in Dagur’s fleet. The men at the guns began their well-versed dance, swabbing the bore, loading the powder and shot, ramming it home, then running the guns back to their original positions. But they did not fire a second volley, waiting for the dragon-riders to sally forth.

* * *

 

Astrid’s face was lightened as she took to her task. She knew it was probably wrong to enjoy it, but she exulted in the challenge of a fight. Hiccup was dropping Thomas off at the entrenchments, so she led the three dragons towards Dagur’s armada. She angled Stormfly into a position to strafe the western-most of the longboats. “C’mon girl,” she encouraged, “show ‘em what you got!”

Stormfly bowed her head perpendicular to the ship, unleashing a stream of sparking fire, then circled around and ripped at its sails with the darts from her tail. The ship lurched off course as one of the spines severed the rope connecting the upper right corner of the sail to the mast, and the sheet sprang to the wind, flapping uselessly.

Astrid smiled, looking for her next target, when she saw Fishlegs and Meatlug. They’d just finished firing a flaming shot at Dagur’s flagship, setting its sail on fire, when the ship to the right of it fired its own catapult. Meatlug tried valiantly but failed to clear out of its path, and her smile died as she saw Fishlegs tossed out of the saddle, with both him and his dragon spiraling down towards the bay. “Stormfly, catch!” She shouted, and her dragon hurled herself into a dive after the boy. “Snotlout, get Meatlug!” she shouted to the remaining dragon-rider, who’d just completed his own attack run, and he nodded, uncharacteristically subdued by the action.

Stormfly caught Fishlegs, still a few dozen yards clear of the water and began hauling him back to the shore, well out of the line of fire of the guns on the cliffs. Astrid looked back, watching Hookfang and Snotlout dive into the water after Meatlug, and held her breath when they didn’t come back up for a few seconds. Then the great red-and-black Monstrous Nightmare breached triumphantly out of the water, holding a gasping Gronkle in its clutches, while an irate, drenched Viking held on to its leg, apparently having fallen off during the dive.

The scene managed to make her smile, despite everything, and she shouted back at Snotlout. “Get Meatlug back to the clubhouse, and don’t make another attack run!”

“I can’t really anyways, _seeing that I’m clinging on the leg of my dragon!_ ” he shouted back. She shook her head. Those two never quit.

* * *

 

Hiccup intercepted them on the way back. “Is Fishlegs okay?” He shouted to Astrid.

“I’m fine, I’m just worried about Meatlug!” Fishlegs shouted back from beneath Stormfly.

“Meatlug’s _probably_ fine.” Came the shout from Snotlout, who came up alongside them, still clinging to Hookfang’s leg.

“Astrid, get those three back to the Edge, I’ll deal with Dagur myself.” He said, the beginnings of true anger in his eyes.

“Don’t!” Astrid replied. “Thomas said not to fly in after the guns started firing again!”

Hiccup started to protest, anger and practicality warring within him, before he relented. “Okay, I’ll… I’ll help down at the landing. Just get Meatlug and Fishlegs to safety, okay?”

“On it!” She replied, giving a flippant, off-handed salute, then bid Stormfly to dive down towards the land. Hookfang followed at a more leisurely pace, his large wings beating slowly against the wind.

Hiccup and Toothless turned, circling down towards the landing, and dismounted, leading Toothless to the entrenchment, unslinging the shield from his back and grabbing a sword from the small pile at the back of the trench. He stood beside Thomas, who nodded at him, and waited, watching the sails slowly approach the landing as the tension rose around him.

* * *

 

 The battle was not going entirely according to plan. It was to be expected, though. The schemes of mice and men, to quote that damnable Scotsman, go oft awry.

So far, four of Dagur’s ships were ablaze, and two were sinking. That left him with seven, and unfortunately, a fair wind had eddied through the fog of gun smoke, scurrying Dagur’s remaining ships to shore too quickly for them to be hammered by shots from the bluffs.

Thomas lifted his sword, waiting for the ships to make land. The first Berserkers disembarked, but though his sword wavered slightly, he still waited. Then, after more than forty of them reached land, he slashed it down. Eight guns boomed, and the air buzzed as hundreds of palm-sized grapeshot and marble-sized canister flew downrange, slashing into the oncoming Berserkers. Dozens fell, well more than half of them killed or wounded outright, when Lieutenant Howard barked his order.

“Fire!” He shouted, and three more of the ten or so surviving Berserkers went down as the crackling musket volley opened. Then the marines, followed by the sword-wielding sailors, stormed forth towards the ones still standing. Those unwounded Berserkers quickly threw down their weapons, pleading for mercy. They were quickly driven to the ground by the marines, and sailors grabbed rope from the Viking longboats to tie them up.

“Good work, everyone. Neatly done.” Thomas said, nodding his gratitude to those of his command who were nearby. “Mister Callaghan, please inform Lieutenant Riley to get the boats into the water now to pick up survivors.” He commanded.

“Aye-aye sir.” The boy saluted, then scurried off, repeating the order to himself to memorize it.

“Master Richardson,” Thomas said now, to a young midshipman. “Get a detail together to secure and treat the enemy’s wounded as best you can.”

“Aye sir.” The midshipman replied, and gathered a number of men, who began separating the dead Berserkers from the merely wounded.

Thomas then scabbarded his sabre, and looked to Hiccup, who was surveying the carnage, his face ashen pale, and his mouth tight-lipped. Hiccup just stood there, shaking his head slowly, and Thomas wondered if it was in denial of what had just happened, or shock at how quickly it went.

“I’m sorry this had to happen,” Thomas began, putting a hand on Hiccup’s shoulder, startling him into turning away from the scene. “But it was necessary to insure-“ An inarticulate scream of fury interrupted him, and a lone Berserker, red-haired and wild-eyed burst from the ground, charging at the pair and wildly swinging a sword.

The marines had not yet reloaded, and though they charged at the apparition in their midst, they’d be too late to stop him. Thomas drew a cocked pistol, and fired. But the surprise threw off his aim, and the shot went wild. He cursed under his breath, drew his second pistol, cocked it, and fired again, but the motion cost him too much time. His shot struck the chest of the charging Berserker, but true to his tribe's name, Dagur kept moving.

Thomas felt a sharp pain in his right side as the sword slashed through his uniform, and a fist smashed against his left temple before he could draw his own sabre, knocking him unconscious.

* * *

 

Hiccup took the sword in his hand, and clashed it against Dagur’s, who was going for the killing blow on the unconscious commander. Blood was flowing freely from the wound in Dagur’s chest, but he still had strength yet. He turned fully towards Hiccup, and swung at him. Hiccup parried, and the blade of his own sword struck Dagur’s again, chipping it.

“So this is how it ends, Brother?!” the Berserker screamed, his voice distorted by rage. Hiccup slashed a pre-emptive blow at him, slicing into his arm at the shoulder, but Dagur ignored the cut. He advanced on Hiccup, swinging wildly, and raised his sword to strike.

And then a triangular steel bayonet protruded from his chest. Dagur finally sunk to his knees, his eyes, still fiery with hate slowly glazing over, and his belabored breathing turned to agonal gasps. A musket butt slammed into the back of his head, driving him into the earth, and Lieutenant Howard stood over his corpse, his face grim, and he slowly removed a handkerchief from his tunic. He wiped away the blood from his bayonet, and let the stained cloth fall onto the body.

Hiccup looked at Dagur’s body, then to the unconscious body of Thomas, and then to the blood on his own sword. He stood there in shock for a few seconds, then let go of the sword. He was suddenly overcome by nausea, and he dropped to his knees, bent over, and vomited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an end, I have given up on indentation. It is unfortunate, but necessary for my sanity.


	3. Flying Colours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battles have consequences.

            He woke up with a horrendous headache. His left temple throbbed vigorously, as did the right flank of his chest. He tried to move a bit, blinking in the moonlit room. He was on a wooden bed, not his usual swinging cot, and though he didn’t recognize the exact hut he was in, he recognized the general pattern of the structure as being one of the Berkian dragon-riders’ huts.

            He lifted up his head to look at his chest. He wasn’t, to his chagrin, in his uniform, but a thick, heavy cotton bandage was wrapped around his midsection, a bit too tight for his taste, but he supposed it was better than bleeding to death. He smiled slightly at the melodrama of his thoughts, then his mind went back to his surroundings.

            He couldn’t see anyone else in the hut, fortunately, as his clothes, he discovered, were folded up neatly beside the bed, and leaving him nude under the blankets. He resolved to find out exactly which one of his subordinates needed a polite reminder of the dignity due the commander of one of his majesty’s ships as he slipped on his clothes.

            He made a move towards the door, only to fall flat on his face. His wooden foot, it turned out, was not currently attached. He stumbled around in the dark on his hands and knees, cursing all the way. The last time he lost it he’d had to hobble around for a week on a wooden stump before the carpenter’s mate had finished making the new foot. It was an indignity that he did not want to repeat any time soon.

            The hut’s door opened, and a marine stormed in, bayonetted musket at the ready.

            “What-“ the marine started, and Thomas quickly recognized the voice as being Lieutenant Howard’s. “Oh, you’re awake, sir.” He said, stating the obvious.

            Thomas bit down the sarcastic reply on that subject he’d been about to make. “Yes, Howard,” he started with a wry smile as he picked himself up off the ground, “I am, in fact, awake. Have you seen my foot, by any chance?”

            “Uh…” The lieutenant looked perplexed for a moment, before remembering his captain’s peculiarity. “Oh! Abernathy took it to the main cabin after you were injured, I think. He said something about it being the only way to keep you in bed. Speaking of which, sir, you ought to be resting. Those are some nasty hits you took, sir.”

            Thomas’ lips pursed. Of course Ed had taken it upon himself to ensure that he got some rest. Thomas loved Ed dearly, that was the kind of friendship that only hostile fire could forge, but sometimes he treated Thomas’ person as too valuable, and that could – occasionally – get in the way of Thomas’ duty as a captain. He’d learned on the deck of the _Orpheus_ that when it came to a battle, the captain was just as mortal, and expendable, as anyone else aboard. Speaking of battle-

            “What’s the final tally, anyways?” he asked the marine.

            “We fished about two dozen of them out of the water sir, and half of those’re wounded. Of the bastards who made landfall, a dozen of were alive at the end, though three’ve succumbed to their wounds, since."

            “And ours?” He asked impatiently.

            “Oh, about that. I ought to congratulate you, sir. Besides yourself, none of us were injured, although Richardson got heatstroke, but he’s fine now. It’s a rare day when the only casualty is the commanding officer, sir.”

            Howard said that with an unusual edge of respect. Thomas grunted what might have been an agreement, or at least an acknowledgement of the compliment. He’d feel better about that particular distinction, were it not for how goddamned painful his head and side were throbbing at the moment.

            He sat back down on the bed heavily. His one ankle could only take so much at a time. “Get Lieutenant Abernathy in here, if you please, and ask if Hiccup and the Valkyr- Ms. Hofferson would join us at their earliest convenience. Oh, and bring me my goddamned foot while you’re at it.” He commanded wearily, suddenly feeling exhausted.

            “Of course, sir.” The marine Lieutenant said. To his credit, he wasn’t even smirking. Much.

 

            “Alright,” Thomas started. Hiccup sat next to him with Astrid and Thomas’ Lieutenant Edward behind a table made by putting boards over two wooden crates in the clubhouse. Spread before them on the table lay an assortment of papers, all hastily scribbled in both runic English and the “Alphabet” that Thomas had shown them. Besides the minor variations in spelling and differences in vocalization between the letters and runes, Hiccup had been surprised by how mutually interchangeable the two were.

            Now, however, the papers were traced with charts and lines, trying to make sense of the surviving Berserker family trees, all to determine who among the survivors would be the next Chief, now that Dagur was dead. It wasn’t helped by how convoluted Berserker succession traditions were in the event that the chief hadn’t chosen his heir ahead of time. Which Dagur, of course, hadn’t.

            Hiccup looked up from the papers to the young Berserker in front of them, one hand rubbing his eye as he did.

            “So, -Olaf Carlson, right?” A nod. “You’re the second son of Carl Grentelson, yeah?” Another nod. “And your older brother was killed by Dagur three years ago, right?” A third nod.

            “Well, your cousin Jorgen died in the recent battle,” Thomas put in, “So we’re going to have to assume that since his younger brother is missing, you’re now the elector for the Huscarls of –“ Thomas checked the papers “Thor’s Peak.”

            The young man’s face paled, but he nodded again.

            “And according to Geir Fritjofson, you’re descended from Haakon the Great by your grandfather’s mother’s line, yeah?” Hiccup asked.

            “Y-yeah,” the young man stammered.

            “Okay, the þing is currently scheduled for Thorsdaeg, and you’re not only one of the electors, but you’ll be one of the candidates, okay?” Hiccup said, gently.

            “Y-yes sir.” The young man said.

            “Okay, you can go now.” He said, and the young man nodded again and scurried out the door.

            “I’m glad _that’s_ over with.” Astrid said, after the door closed. Hiccup looked like he was going to say something, but Astrid spoke over him. “For now, at least.” She amended.

            Hiccup nodded. “For now,” he repeated. “Anything else we need to discuss before we get out of here?” he asked.

            The lieutenant glanced over at Thomas, and some wordless exchange took place. Thomas sighed.

            “I’m afraid our provisions are running low, and I’m ashamed to say that I don’t have enough currency aboard ship to properly pay for any requisitions we need.” He shrugged apologetically. “I could issue promissory notes, though I doubt you’d be able to cash them even if you could get to England to do so, but some of our barrels got opened,” his face darkened in a shameful flush, “and the contents spoiled when we hit the rocks.”

            “It’s okay,” Hiccup said. “We don’t have a lot of food other than fish, but the dragons can catch a _lot_ of fish.”

            Thomas let out a breath of relief. “Oh lord, thank you Hiccup. We owe you greatly. I’m not sure how we can repay you-“

            “Don’t mention it,” Hiccup interjected. “Besides, you’ve already repaid us far more than a few tons of fish are worth.” He said.

            Thomas conceded the point. “All right. Now that we’ve dealt with the succession crisis – _for now_ – “ Thomas said with a wry smile. “And the food issue’s dealt with as well, all we need to do is wait for Chambers and Eriksson, and the twins, of course, to arrive. Hopefully with some oak.”

            “I’m kind of worried about them,” Astrid said. “They’ve been gone for too long now.”

            Edward nodded in agreement. “It is most unusual for Mister Chambers to take this long, he hates delaying anything.”

            “We could send out search parties.” Hiccup suggested, “But, delay or not, the twins and Barf and Belch can look after themselves. Besides, according to the Berserkers, all of their ships were with Dagur’s fleet.”

            “That may be, but I do agree with Ms. Hofferson. I think we should send out-“

            The door swung open, and Snotlout stumbled through, out of breath from running. “The twins are back!” he said, gesturing vaguely out the door, panting still. “They’re hurt, though,” he continued.

            “ _What?!_ ” Hiccup said, startled, and the quartet at the table quickly rose and rushed passed Snotlout out the door. Snotlout spun around, and whined; “Oh, we’re going this way now?” as he panted his way behind him.

 

            Thomas frowned as he, Edward, Hiccup and Astrid made it to the clearing where the two-headed dragon had landed. The great beast’s flanks were scarred, and pock-marked with arrows on its left side. Chambers stood next to it, a bandage around his right arm at the bicep, with Eriksson next to him, as they helped the twins, both of whom had bandages on their legs, down from their dragon, which had slumped over, and was moaning a low-pitched wail.

            “Agh, ya big brute,” Chambers said to the dragon in a friendly manner, “Yer not so hurt, aye?” The big Bo’sun patted the dragon’s left head with his uninjured arm. He then turned, and seeing Thomas approach, he saluted, albeit slowly, and wincing the whole time.

            “At ease, Mister Chambers.” Thomas said. “What happened?”

            As he said this, Hiccup and Astrid helped the twins, Hiccup by grabbing Tuffnut with one arm, and walking him in a slow limp towards the nearest hut, while Astrid simply threw the other one over her shoulder and jogged to it.

            Chambers looked around him, making sure that none of the sailors were within earshot, though a throng of them had gathered a respectful distance away, observing.

            “We couldn’t find any good oak ‘round these isles, sir,” he said in a low voice. “We flew all the way to Orkney, sir, an’ that’s the problem, sir. I got family o’er there, near the Scapa Flow, an’ it ain’t there.”

            “You’re saying that Orkney isn’t there anymore?” Thomas asked incredulously.

            The Bo’sun shook his head. “Not like that, sir. The island’s there all right, it’s just that the villages ain’t. Oh,” he made a broad gesture with his uninjured arm, “There’re villages, but they’re all full of barbarians wi’ bows ‘n’ arrows, sir. Nary much as a musket in sight, an’ none o’ the fuckers spoke a lick o’ English, beggin’ yer pardon fer my French.”

            Thomas’ head felt like it was spinning. “Can you confirm this, Mister Eriksson?” he asked the carpenter’s mate standing next to the Bo’sun.

            “Aye sir,” the man said. “We flew ‘bout as far down as Kirkwall, and that wasn’t there, either.” He lowered his voice. “Wherever we are, sir, it isn’t where we started, and that’s for sure.”

            Thomas shook his head to clear his thoughts. “In any event, gentlemen, we have other concerns besides, did you find oak?”

            “Aye sir, one of the Hebrides has a few clusters of solid old growth, and so far as I could see, there’s not a man in sight within twenty or thirty miles of it.”

            Thomas gave a curt nod. “Well done anyways, both of you.” He looked back towards the wounded two-headed dragon. The Night Fury had ambled over, and with a series of head-bobs and low growls managed to communicate with the other beast.

            Thomas realized that the other two men were still next to him, distracted as he was by the scene. “In any case, Mister Eriksson, get some rest. Mister Chambers, get your wound checked out, and report to the – uh – clubhouse at your convenience, please. I’ll have the other officers there to discuss what we’re going to do with this new… information.”

            “Aye-aye sir,” replied the two petty officers, and they walked off towards the ship. Thomas sighed. There was always so much to do, he thought. He shook his head again, drew a breath, and strode towards the men who were engaged in their various shore-duties as well as other, less dutiful activities, calling for his officers as he did.

 

* * *

  

            Hiccup looked up from his blacksmithing as he heard the growl. He’d gotten the twins into their beds, with an admonition to get rest and Astrid to look after them, they ought to end up fine. He was a little worried about their wounds, but it wasn’t like they hadn’t had worse, and Fishlegs had gathered some herbs, which he’d crushed in a small mortar, and applied to their wounds when they’d re-bandaged them.

            He looked to the door of his little blacksmithing shed, carefully – he’d learned that lesson with pain – placing the red-hot iron rod aside.

            “What’s wrong, Toothless?” he asked the dragon that had poked its head through the door.

            Toothless grunted again, gesturing his head out the door. Curious, Hiccup followed him.

            Toothless led him back to the clearing that the twins had landed in, and saw Barf and Belch laying on their side, their flanks bloody from a half-dozen wounds, most of which had already started healing, but one of which hadn’t.

            Next to them was a small pile of arrows, their shafts crushed and dented with tooth marks, which Hiccup assumed were Toothless’. He looked through them, seeing one of them missing its arrowhead, and peered at the still-bleeding wound. The arrowhead was stuck most of the way in, the iron ear of it having gotten caught on one of the poor dragon’s scales when Toothless took it out, breaking the head off from the shaft and splintering it further.

            “Aw, you poor thing,” Hiccup said, patting the large dragon. “Here, sit tight, I’ve got just the thing- I’ll be right back, promise.” He dashed off to his shed, grabbed his bag, and ran back.

            He opened the leather satchel, sorting through his old cast-iron tools, before he found the pair of tongs he was looking for, and used them to grasp the arrowhead. He pulled, to no avail. Frustrated, he pulled harder, but the object wouldn’t budge. After a few minutes of fruitless struggle of wiggling it back and forth, he stood up. Gripping both hands to the tongs firmly, he placed his good leg on the dragon’s side, and pushed again, using all his might.

            The arrowhead came out, causing him to fall back, and the metal tongs in his hands flew into his face. Perhaps he hadn’t thought this one all the way through.

            He rubbed his abused face with one hand as he got up, and inspected the hole in the side of the dragon. It still looked nasty, but at least it didn’t have a sharp iron object in it anymore.

            The Barf and Belch’s two head came around, examined their wound, the arrowhead lying on the grass, and the young Viking with a forehead that was quickly going purple. They lunged at Hiccup, licking his face over and over, and he laughed and tried to push them off, before a very jealous Toothless growled and interposed himself between them, protectively curling his wings around his rider.

            In the tent of wings that he found himself lying in, Hiccup patted Toothless’ head, who proceeded to push up against him. He smiled. “Thanks, bud.” He said quietly.

            He stood up and looked around. The sky was darkening – how had he not noticed the sun setting? – and he was tired.

            He walked amiably with his dragon towards his cabin. Toothless pushed through the door of it, jumping up to the rafter that he’d built just for him, and hung down, bat-style to sleep. Hiccup shook his head at his dragon’s antics, closed the door, and took off his shirt, still wet with dragon-slobber, dumping it next to his bed, and crawled under the blankets. His head would hurt in the morning, but that was okay.

            So long as everyone else was okay, so was he. It was weird, how that day went by, as though the battle never happened. It was almost enough to let him forget.

            His dreams weren’t as peaceful.

 

* * *

 

            The funerals for the Berserkers who’d died were that next day. Apparently, it was Viking tradition to wait at least one day after someone had died – usually two – before burial to make sure that the person was dead.

            Two of the Berserkers’ boats that had landed were patched up and heaped with the bodies, and draped with their sails, pushed out in the harbor by their surviving comrades. They then took up bows, and with a great bonfire in front of them they lit pitch-soaked arrowheads and sent them flying, where the flaming projectiles ignited the departing longboats.

            Olaf Carlson, the young man who’d been elected the next Berserker chief, spoke a few words to his attentive tribesmen, the loss of so many familial bonds had shaken every man in those lines of bowmen, and after his brief words he took the remnants of his shattered tribe onto one surviving longboat, nodded to Hiccup in recognition, and departed for Berserker island.

            Welch watched with mixed feelings as the pitiful double-handful of men on that tattered boat departed. Their leader may have needed to be ended, but he began to doubt his own battle plan and complicity in making it.

            The battle had been a slaughter, and just because the enemy had gone in expecting a quick victory made in no less of one. It wasn’t like the action that had cost him his foot on the _Orpheus_. That had been a fair fight, and gentlemanly in its own brutality. But here, he’d just led an enemy that didn’t know what was coming into the meat grinder, and they’d never truly had a chance, no matter how close it may have seemed. All he did was kill sixty men in a glorified ambush because their leader was too stupid and insane to surrender in the face of overwhelming odds.

            The sharp pain in his flank as he walked away from the cliff’s edge reminded him of what Dagur had truly meant to accomplish, but he forced it from his mind. He had to deal with the fact that they were, for all intents and purposes, lost in a new world. His duty to King and Country meant that he needed to find a way back for his ship and his men first. Failing that… If he failed to, he honestly didn’t know what he would do. But, he thought, that was a Rubicon that he would cross when he came to it.

 

* * *

 

            Hiccup sat patiently through the second meeting that Thomas had called. Most of it was just planning how they’d find the oak that Thomas needed to repair his ship.

            He peered over the map that the “bo’sun” had sketched, and pointed at one of the islands. “I don’t think we should try that one,” he explained to Thomas and Edward, “the last time we were there, we were ambushed by Changewings.”

            “Where ought we stop for supplies then?” Edward asked back.

            “Hmm…” the young Viking intoned, “I think this island ought to do.” He tapped the map. “If I remember right, this one just has a few wild boars on it. And some fresh water, I think.”

            “Alright,” Thomas said, “we’ll send-“ He broke off, and blushed slightly. “Not to be presumptuous and order your riders around, Hiccup. Who are we going to send?”

            Hiccup chuckled slightly. For all his virtues, Thomas wasn’t used to compromise – or command teamwork, for that matter – he’d have to work on that. “I can find it in my heart to forgive your presumption. But anyways, I’ll take you on Toothless, Thomas, and have Snotlout carry your carpenter and Bo’sun and then shuttle some of your sailors. We’ll have to make a couple of trips, but if we establish a camp on our rest island, we can start stockpiling the timber there, so that when Barf and Belch are healed up, they can carry the supplies back to the Edge.”

            Thomas looked at him a bit perplexed. “We don’t need all that much timber, Hiccup, just enough to patch up the _Cygnet_ ’s hold.”

            Hiccup shrugged. “If we’re going to start logging for it anyways, we might as well get a lot. If nothing else, I’m sure my dad will appreciate it.”

            “Okay guys,” he said now, “we’re going to get up and out at first light. Astrid, you’re in charge while I’m gone, along with whoever Thomas chooses. And if you don’t here from us for a couple days, send a search party.”

            Astrid rolled her eyes. “No, Hic, I’ll twirl my axe around and lament the loss of my man.” She said sarcastically, and punched Hiccup’s shoulder.

            “Ow! Hey, I’m just saying,” The young Viking protested.

            Edward was smirking at the by-play. Seeing this, Thomas said, “Oh, that reminds me, Edward. You are, of course in charge while I’m gone.” Thomas turned to Astrid. “Do make sure he doesn’t get himself in trouble, if you’d please, my lady.”

            The Valkyrie smiled, and idly twirled the axe she carried perpetually. “Won’t be a problem, Tom.”

            If the lieutenant paled slightly, his light complexion hid it well.

            “Well, that should do it.” Hiccup said. He gestured towards the door, looking at Thomas. “Now that that’s over with, wanna see the flight suit that I’m making? I think that if I replace the second set of stabilizers with Gronkle iron, I’ll be able to…”

 

* * *

 

            Their conversation trailed off into the distance, leaving Astrid and Edward looking after them, watching as Thomas’ head nodded politely as he paid a fair bit more attention to Hiccup’s rambling than everyone else usually did.

            Astrid looked at the departing figures speculatively. “Do you think that Tom’s interested in Hiccup?” She asked Edward.

            Misunderstanding, Edward nodded. “Of course, my lady-“

            “Please, just call me Astrid,” she interrupted.

            “Right, Astrid,” he nodded to her, “Your leader’s a very peculiar man, I’ll grant. Certainly an interesting one.”

            “Yeah,” the young woman continued, “they’d _certainly_ make a cute couple. But I can’t help but be a little jealous, y’know.”

            Edward stared at her, shocked. “I- Astrid-“ he stammered. Pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts, he started again, in a voice like treading on eggshells. “I gather from your meaning, that your culture – uh – has no qualms about inverts, but the society Thomas and I come from is not so… tolerant, shall we say?”

            It was Astrid’s turn to stare. “Inverts?” she questioned.

            Edward stammered again, “Inverts, you know, queers, dandies, that sort of thing-“

            “Are you trying to say gay people?” Astrid interjected.

            The lieutenant sighed, giving up on the cultural rift. “If by ‘gay people’ you mean homosexuals, then yes. My society has little tolerance towards those who are drawn towards their same sex. It is, in fact, a crime, and punishable by hard labour, at that.”

            Astrid looked a mix of confused and appalled at that, but asked, “And is Thomas gay?”

            “Astrid, I cannot and shan’t speak of such things of my commanding officer, negatively or positively. And even if he were an invert, it wouldn’t be any of my concern anyways-“ Edward equivocated.

            “ _Edward_.” The name came out like stone. The Valkyrie glared at the lieutenant.

            Edward looked away and again sighed. “Yes, he is. I’ve never made it a problem – he _is_ my best friend, damnation! – and he’s never mentioned it, of course. But hell, he can’t hide it. ‘Leastwise, not from me. In fact,” his mouth quirked a wry half-smile, “I could likely name the list of his past… dalliances better than he can.”

            Astrid raised an eyebrow. Edward put his hands up. “He _is_ my best friend,” he repeated, “and unlike his delusions, he isn’t precisely subtle about it. Of course, we share a house often as not whenever we’re on shore leave – and attend the same events, too, now that I think about it – so there’d be no real way for him to hide it from me, even if he was subtle about it.”

            “So, back to my original question, do you think he’s interested in Hiccup?” Astrid again inquired.

            Edward shook his head, still smiling. “Astrid, he isn’t ‘interested’ in Hiccup; he’s downright _smitten_.”

            Astrid smiled back. “Well, knowing Hiccup this well, I figure that he likes Thomas, too, so the question is, how do we get those two oblivious dorks to see what everyone else sees?”

            “I will take no part in your playing Aphrodite,” Edward replied.

            “Oh, you wouldn’t do it to make your _best friend_ happy?” Astrid shot back.

            The lieutenant grimaced. “That was a low blow, Astrid; you wound me! Fine, I’ll help. Let’s just wait for them to get back from this excursion before we start enacting your machinations, alright?”

            “Okay,” Astrid said simply, and smirked, then strolled away, twirling her axe. “Oh, boys, you make it so _easy_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another note, a þing - pronounced "thing" and is where we get the word - is a collective group of Norse citizens, forming an early version of a parliament, congress, or town hall meeting.


	4. Conduct Unbecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Article 24: Every Officer subject to this Act who shall be guilty of Cruelty, or of any scandalous or fraudulent Conduct, shall be dismissed with Disgrace from Her Majesty's Service; and every Officer subject to this Act who shall be guilty of any other Conduct unbecoming the Character of an Officer shall be dismissed, with or without Disgrace, from Her Majesty's Service." - British Articles of War

            “Is that the last load, Mister Chambers?” Asked Thomas as the sailors secured cut oak planks to the sides of Hookfang.

“Aye aye, sir, ‘tis.” Came the Bo’sun’s gruff reply.

            “Very good then. Mister Saxon, if you’d please gather up the tents, I think we’ll be out of here inside of an hour.” Thomas, for once, smiled to the men. It had been exhausting, finding, cutting, and especially, hauling the oak timbers back to Berk. What he’d expected to take three days at most ended up being two and a half weeks’ worth of labor, and he bitterly regretted the delay. It left him with too much time to dwell over what he was going to do next without him being able to actually _do_ anything.

            He mulled it over again. So far as he could tell, he, his ship, and his sailors were stranded, for want of a better word, in an entirely foreign world, and he’d surreptitiously sent a few of the dragon-riders to the fogbank to try and find a way back – this mythical “Helheim’s Gate” that Hiccup had postulated was how the _Cygnet_ and her crew had gotten to the new world to begin with – and to no avail. Whatever it was, the dragon-riders couldn’t find it again, even backtracking _Cygnet_ ’s precise navigation logs.

            His duty to King and Country demanded that he exhaust every possible resource trying to get his men home. He couldn’t simply give up and let his men start a new life here; the navy _needed_ every ship, every sailor, in the war against Napoleon.

            And what if he couldn’t? How would he deal with trying to settle closer to two hundred sailors, many of whom had been press-ganged into service, without something going wrong? And what would happen when the men realized that they were stranded? He doubted he could rely on discipline – without the threat rest of the fleet, he was likely to be able to rely only on the loyalty of his officers and the marines, and they were outnumbered ten to one by sailors.

            He shook his head slightly. Hiccup and Toothless had landed, they had ferried the rest of the men besides Chambers, Saxon, and Eriksson, who’d stayed behind for the last load of oak, back to the Edge.

            Toothless slumped on landing, and let out a melodramatic cooing sigh as he did. Hiccup leaned forward to pat him on the head, and jumped off, walking off-balanced towards Thomas.

            Seeing this, Thomas turned towards Mister Saxon, who was taking down the tents in the camp. “Leave one up, actually, if you’d please, Mister Saxon. I think Hiccup and I will stay here another night, so as to give Toothless some rest.”

            “Aye sir, will do.”

            Hiccup quirked an eyebrow. “I thought you wanted to get back as soon as possible.” He said.

            “I still do, but we’re already two weeks over schedule, another day won’t matter, I think. Besides, Edward has a handle on the situation back on the edge, and it’ll take a few more days to patch up the ship.”

            Hiccup smiled slightly. “If you say so.”

 

* * *

 

            “Can we go yet?” Snotlout whined. He’d endured more hard labor in the past couple weeks that ever before in his life, and he and Hookfang were very eager to be back on the Edge for a well-deserved two-day-long nap. Preferably with snacks catered to them in bed.

            Hookfang shifted his weight from his forelegs on the ground to his hind legs as Saxon climbed up the flank of the dragon and tied a rope around his waist into the harness on top. “I think we got everyone,” Snotlout said, impatiently.

            Hiccup walked over, checking the other ropes tying the sailors to the dragon. “Got everything?” He asked the Bo’sun.

            “Aye sir, at that I think we do.”

            Hiccup nodded. “Okay, you can go now. Probably should hurry up, too. It’s gonna be dark soon.”

            Snotlout descended into a rant on how if everyone had listened to him, they’d’ve been in the air by now or something of the sort (Hiccup hadn’t precisely been paying attention, so he was just guessing) before Hookfang got tired of it and took off anyways, cutting Snotlout’s fulminations short.

            Hiccup paid little attention to it; he turned around and surveyed the logging camp. It was weird how empty something could look, and how strange at that, like a home without furniture, even though it wasn’t a home – just a temporary campsite.

            Then he realized something –

            “ _One_ tent?” he asked aloud, without thinking.

            Thomas swiveled around, Hiccup’s outburst obviously startling him out of the thoughtful contemplation which had had him looking seaward.

            “Wha-? Uh, oh. I hope that’s alright, if not I can sleep outside-“ a blush found its way onto his cheeks. Hiccup’s lips quirked, For all his military bravado, Thomas was downright _cute_ when he was embarrassed.

            Hiccup waved a hand. “Oh, don’t worry about it, it’s just that the tents are fairly small. I’m sure we’ll manage though.” He started to wonder about that; Thomas had made the single-tent decision awfully quick, in Hiccup’s opinion.

            He wasn’t as oblivious as Astrid seemed to think; he could tell that Thomas was infatuated with him, and he enjoyed the attention. In fact, in some ways, he reciprocated. But the question was; did _Thomas_ know that he had feelings for Hiccup. For instance, thought Hiccup as he debated it to himself, was Thomas’ immediate response for one single tent due to a subconscious desire to sleep in the same tent as him, or simply innocent naivety. Surely, from what Astrid had told him (Alright, maybe he _was_ that oblivious, but Astrid had spilled the beans on Thomas’ crush to him).

            Night had crept up on them, Hiccup noticed, and so, as nonchalantly as he could, he said, “We should probably go to bed soon.”

            Thomas blushed again – was he really _that_ bad at hiding it? – but nodded nonetheless. “Aye, that- that’s probably a good idea. I’ll go fetch my bedroll, aye?” and Hiccup nodded.

            When they were in bed, he didn’t, of course, make any moves, a dragon tamer he might be, he wasn’t quite as bull headed and quick to charge in as some people seemed to think, especially over something as nerve-wracking as feelings were. But, as he lay on his bedroll, staring at the canvass tarp above him, and listening to the soft, slow breaths of the sleeping commander next to him – to the sleeping love-struck young man next to him, he corrected mentally – he had time of his own, finally, to start worrying. He didn’t really know who he was before. But what now? His life was turning upside-down at an astonishing rate; his first love, who he’d pined over so much just a scant few years ago now seemed much better a friend, he’d discovered interest in a young man (Though, being fair to him, it wasn’t as if his fellow Vikings considered being gay to be anything but normal, though his revelation was a bit surprising), and that man happened to be commanding a dozens-strong force of violent, warlike men, none of whom could go home again.

            And there was blood on his hands, now. Oh, he wasn’t the one who gave the coup de grace, but Dagur’s blood had left an indelible mark on his psyche. So much for being peaceful and nonviolent, huh?

            It took a while for him to drift off to sleep, lost in darkening thoughts, though the shadow of Toothless, asleep outside on a tree-branch, hanging down like a bat and guarding the entrance to the tent was a relieving comfort; at least some things in his life weren’t changing.

 

            It was reasonably cold that next morning, though Hiccup, an inveterate denizen of the northern world, didn’t mind all that much. In fact, he wasn’t all that cold at all, waking up. The warm body clinging to his side under a wool blanket probably helped, he reckoned. He groggily shifted, enjoying the small pleasure of the warmth for what it was, and an eyelid cracked open to view the pre-dawn twilight, just starting to lighten the skies above.

            His shift seemed to have woken up Thomas, which probably wasn’t a good thing. Habitually, he slept without his shirt on, and Thomas seemed to do the same, so Thomas recoiling away from him and the sudden lack of skin contact was probably a warning sign that Thomas had just realized that yes, he had snuggled up to his crush while he was sleeping.

            “I- I- I’m sorry.” Thomas stammered, his eyes wide in panic. Hiccup made a placating gesture, and tried to tell him it was okay, but Thomas cut him off. “Oh my lord God I’m sorry!”

            Hiccup looked at him in confusion. Sure, he’d cuddled up to him in his sleep, but it wasn’t worthy of _that_ kind of overreaction. But before he could say that, Thomas bolted from the tent, running barefoot in his trousers as fast as he could into the woods.

            Hiccup sighed. Where in Helheim did he think he was going? They were on an _island_.

 

* * *

 

            Thomas was thinking to himself much the same question, only more in a ‘What’re you going to do now, genius?’ sort of deal. He was panting, leaning up against a mossy old sycamore tree above a vista of the ocean. His right foot hurt from running barefoot, and his left ankle hurt from running, period.

            It was just so damned _unfair_ he thought. He was a loyal officer. He knew how to navigate. He’d shown bravery under fire and lost a limb to the enemy serving King and Country. He was practically a marble model. Except – except that he liked men. And to his countrymen, that one flaw made him a despicable, disgusting, disgraceful, unnatural cur. He hated himself for it.

            He pulled at his hair, blowing out a steadying breath in frustration. What he hell was he going to do? As he calmed down, the sudden cold hit him. Right. That was why he was cuddling up to Hiccup. And now he was on the other side of the island, in nothing but trousers, freezing, with, he was sure, at least one cut on his good foot, and unless he wanted to be stranded here, his only way back to the _Cygnet_ was the young Viking that he had so rudely taken leave of, after having… been in inappropriate physical contact.

            He’d overreacted. Hell, if he’d just kept his goddamned mouth shut and apologized, he could’ve just passed it off as being a result of the cold. But now Hiccup was sure to know about his unnatural attraction and-

            A shirt hit him. Specifically, _his_ shirt hit him. Quickly, he put it on, and saw the selfsame man he’d been avoiding. He hadn’t noticed his approach, his head in his hands and distracted by all the self-pity as he was.

 

            Hiccup jumped off of Toothless, and the dragon cocked its head to one side, in concerned confusion. Not so much in concern for Thomas’ safety as for his sanity; even Toothless realized the futility of running away on an island, and he wondered, in his own way, how and for what Thomas had been so overcome with stupidity. He soon came to the realization that Thomas was acting just as stupid around Hiccup as his own rider used to be around Astrid, and Toothless felt a sudden envy of the other dragons, whose riders were never struck with such silliness.

 

            Hiccup placed a hand on Thomas’ shoulder, who at the contact closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, but Hiccup beat him to the point.

            “Astrid told me.” He said, as earnestly as he could, “About your crush. On me, that is. Edward told her about it, and how your guys’ people aren’t okay with it.” He struggled for words. “I don’t know how to help, besides saying that _I’m_ okay with it – really! – and so’s everyone else on the edge and Berk.”

            He waved a hand outward, dismissively. “I know what it’s like to hide something like that, and honestly, I wasn’t that good at hiding it. Hel, my own dad disowned me for it, so I guess I sort of know how you feel about it, and it sucks.”

            “I guess I wasn’t that as I thought I was.” Thomas said with a small smile of little amusement, “At hiding it, rather.” He shook his head. “Is it really that obvious?” He asked.

            Hiccup shrugged. “Not to me. But I’ve always been better with dragons than with people, so who knows? Maybe it is to people like Edward and Astrid.” Hiccup sat down next to Thomas. “I’m gonna be honest; I’m a bit scared of you, and I don’t really like what you do.”

            Thomas sat in silence, his face emotionless, as Hiccup continued, gesturing wildly. “I mean, I get that it needs to be done sometimes, but I just don’t like violence at all, and it’s literally your _job_. Like, you’d get thrown out of your navy in shame if you didn’t do it, and while I can understand that, being a Viking and all, I’m also the only Viking to just try and, well, stop it. Three hundred years of war, and _I_ , skinny little fishbone runt-of-the-litter Stoick’s-little-mistake Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, am the only one to actually _finish_ it.”

            Thomas shook his head. “People aren’t like dragons,” he said quietly. “Dragons are just animals – no offence, Toothless! – “ he added quickly, at the big black dragon’s irritated and defiant _harrumph_. “Or at least they have very limited, animalistic goals, like eating – “ he amended, with a smile that said ‘ _are you happy now?’_ “and they aren’t willfully malicious, at least not the regular ones, the Red Death might’ve been different,” he conceded, “but overall, they just do what they need to do to survive. Humans? Humans are just as capable of evil as of good, and without a threat to bind them together; they’ll go for each other’s throats over the tiniest little trifles. And if they don’t have an excuse to go to war, they’ll make one up. Like the goddamned War of Jenkins’ ear, for Christ’s sake.”

            He shook his head again, “Without the dragons as a common threat, there’re going to be more Dagur-s the Deranged. More Napoleons, too.”

            “And that may be,” Hiccup countered, “But that doesn’t mean we have to let it get that far. But anyways, we’re going _way_ off topic here,” he gestured yet more wildly, “All I wanted to say was that I think that I wanted you to know that… that what you do _does_ scare me, and I think it’ll hurt the chances of making a relationship.”

            Thomas’ brows knitted together, his face contemplative, before his eyes widened and he paled a bit. “But- but there _is_ a chance?” he stuttered uncharacteristically out, all thoughts of war having left him, leaving only an awkward, blushing teenage boy who’d never really had the opportunity to _be_ an awkward, blushing teenage boy.

            Hiccup shrugged and grinned, “Yeah, I think there is.”

            At the same time, though, he noticed the change, from Thomas being the stern, severe warrior to Thomas the gangly, shy, hopeful young man sitting slightly too close to his crush and with slightly too overactive brain racing through unlikely possibilities. And this was someone who lost their foot in a battle, who planned a massacre of sixty Berserkers in an ambush, and despised himself for his own attractions, the same ones that made him so much more _human_ than the actions which gave him such standing among his own peers.

            Hiccup hated that part; that people always seemed to glorify war at the expense of peace, when peace is what made them happy. But that was for later, for right now, he and Thomas were somewhat-awkwardly staring at each other, just a few inches apart, alone on an island, and-

 

* * *

  

            Toothless was bored. Both Hiccup and Thomas seemed to have caught a case of the stupid, and for each other, which did not bode well for the future. He wondered if there was a cure for such stupidity. Perhaps the Elder would know of one. He determined that he would seek the counsel of the other dragons, and try to cure it quickly, lest the stupidity struck all of the dragons’ humans.

            He growled a bit. They could be stupid on their own time; he hadn’t had cooked fish in at least three days (he wasn’t entirely good with time, anything more than two days just seemed to blur together) and he’d prefer to get back to the Edge, where he had cooked fish and convenient rafters to sleep on, not branches of varying sturdiness.

 

* * *

 

            Thomas wasn’t _quite_ stupid enough to lean in for a kiss. _Quite_. However, it was likely fortunate that Toothless interrupted them. His spirits were high, which, had he given it, may have lent cause for concern upon reflection, given how low they were a mere conversation ago. He smiled at the big black dragon, as it made a show of just how impatient it was. It was a toothy grin, that smile, and much unlike his usual smirk. He wondered briefly what the dragon thought of him. It seemed to be friendlier as of late, though he had no true yardstick to compare it to. Meatlug and Stormfly, it seemed, were the friendliest of the dragons, with Barf and Belch in third, Toothless at a somewhat aloof-to-newcomers fourth, and the irascible Hookfang at a quantifiable last place, but it seemed as though Toothless was warming up to him.

            He noticed that he was distracting himself with his thoughts again. Most likely it was because he wanted to hold on to the moment, but like so many others, it slipped through his fingers. He stood up, realizing that he still wasn’t wearing socks or shoes, and with one hand rubbing his neck, he said, “I’ll – er – I’ll go and pack up the tent, aye?”

            Hiccup nodded. “Good idea,” he said, “Toothless and I’ll just wait here, I guess. And then we’ll fly back to the Edge.”

            “Yeah.” Thomas agreed.

            He finally noticed the cold, which was to be expected when one went gallivanting around barefoot, but he’d endured worse, so he pushed it aside as he walked back to the abandoned campsite.

            He looked a quick once-over of the site, taking care to ascertain that there were no tools left lying around, before he deftly untied the ropes holding up the tent. He wasn’t really thinking about what he was doing; knot tying came to a sailor, even an officer, about as naturally as breathing, and he neatly rolled up the rope, folded up the canvass tarp, and rolled it into his sleeping roll, rolling that off in turn, and tying it all off with string, before attaching that to the wooden beams, tied with rope into a simple A-frame pack. He’d also left out his socks and shoes, which he slipped over his feet; thankful for the relative warmth they offered his good foot.

            Then, with his roped-together pack uncomfortably strung across his back, he left for the far side of the island. He’d remember this place, he decided. He just hoped with trepidation that the events which it seemed to portend would be all to the better.

            He was feeling overly verbose in his thoughts, too. And poetic, as well. Must be the cold.

 

* * *

  

            Thomas gently closed the clubhouse door behind him, and Hiccup took a deep mental breath. The ride back had been relatively uneventful, if only for the reason that Toothless had flown too fast, and the wind had been too loud for any conversation.

            He looked to Thomas, then to Astrid and Edward, who were already gathered in the relative darkness; all the windows having been closed, too.

            “ _You_ ,” Thomas said, pointing accusingly at Edward, “and I are going to have a little _talk_ on the _respect_ due superior officers, my friend.” His tone wasn’t all that friendly.

            “Yes sir,” Edward said sheepishly.

            Hiccup looked around after he and Thomas sat down. “Okay, we’re here, that’s done. Where are we on everything?”

            Astrid spoke up first. “We’ve got enough food for everyone. Though it’s still mostly fish, sorry. Other than that, Ed?”

            Edward nodded to the dragon-rider. “Repairs are almost complete, sir. We’ve got just a couple more copper plates to fix, so we’ll have to wait another day or so before we can right the ship’s ballast and get her out of port, but other than that, we’ve been provided enough rations and supplies to make it for six months wherever we go. Speaking of which, Tom, where _are_ we going?”

            Hiccup, as well as the other two, turned their attention to the commander. His eyes were troubled. “We’ll chart a course exactly retracing our path here. If that doesn’t work, I’ll give it a month of exploring, then we make it back here – with your permission, of course, Hiccup.”

            Hiccup nodded. “And then what?” He asked. “If you don’t make it, I mean?”

            Welch’s eyebrows furrowed as his frown deepened. He let the silence linger, lost in his troubled thoughts. “I honestly don’t know.” He admitted, finally. “Either try to settle an island around here, or… I don’t know.” His head raised, however, as though he’d decided his course. “I will _not_ , however, permit the men to run rampant like a wolf pack of Berbers. I refuse to be the start of an empire of piracy, and I will, in the event that we cannot return to King and Country, remind our men that they still owe their oaths and lives to the Crown and Christendom.”

            It was Hiccup’s turn to frown. For all his open-mindedness in other areas, Thomas Welch had a disturbing fanaticism and racism that underlay a lot of his perceptions, if Hiccup was reading it right. It wasn’t that apparent – they certainly weren’t looking down upon the Vikings - but their underlying faith in their own moral superiority over other groups showed itself occasionally in their odd references to ‘uncivilized’ people in places called Africa and America, and their description of how those people lived struck him as entirely familiar to how his own tribe lived.

            And they were very, very fanatical in their religion. Hiccup didn’t really get it. Sure, showing respect to the gods was important; right on Dragon’s Edge they had a _Vé_ for worship, and they occasionally burned fish oil as a sacrifice, while competing in athletic competitions (which Astrid always won, of course, being martial in nature as competitions dedicated to the gods always were). Oh, and of course all of the huts both on the Edge and on Berk had protective runes on them, for much the same reason.

            But the English took a vastly different view of it. For starters, their God (and they apparently only had one, Hiccup wasn’t sure why) apparently had a very rigorous set of demands, and from the rather convoluted explanation that Edward had given him, apparently their holy symbol was the thing that their God’s son was nailed to, and that was their God, too, and so was a ghost, which were apparently three separate things, but the same thing at once. And something about a holy book that contained everything to know about their religion, but he had no clue what it was saying or why it was divided into two books, each of which were divided into more and more books, none of which seemed to go together very well.

            Hiccup shook his head. He just didn’t get it. Not just that he didn’t understand how it all came together, but he didn’t get why it was so big of a part of their lives. Showing respect to the gods was a chore, and it was a duty that everyone shared, yes. But neither Astrid, nor Hiccup, nor any of the other Vikings were _proud_ of their faith, they didn’t really identify with it, any more than they would have identified as fish-eaters or air-breathers. It was just a thing that you did every day.

            But it did worry him that Tom and his people made such a big deal out of it. They also called the Vikings “Pagans”, and while he wasn’t sure what the term meant, he had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t a compliment.

            Tom spoke up, breaking Hiccup of his meandering thoughts. “Alright. If we’ve settled that, I think we’ll go hunting for this “Helheim’s Gate” again, and see if we can’t go back through.” The commander looked to Hiccup. “I am deeply indebted to you and your people, Hiccup,” he started, “And I would like to thank you now for your hospitality, with the understanding that if we succeed in returning to England, I will never be able to reciprocate. I hope that that will not be the case, but it is my duty to the Crown to pursue it.” He shook his head sadly, “But I find myself doubting that we will make it home. Perhaps we _should_ , much as it pains me to, discuss now what we’re going to do in the event that we cannot find a path home.”

            Hiccup frowned. “Well, there are a few islands we’ve explored around here that would be good for farming, and if push comes to shove, Berk doesn’t really _need_ Dragon’s Edge, so I suppose we could give it to you-“

            “I would never ask for you to do that,” Tom interrupted, but Hiccup waved him down.

            “Or, I think, you and your crew could join one of the Viking tribes. I don’t know how well that would work, but it wouldn’t be the first time a tribe has adopted a smaller tribe.” Well, thought Hiccup, that was the polite way to put it. Phrases like ‘absorb at sword-point’ or ‘annex by force’ were probably more accurate. Hiccup wondered which would be pointing the swords, if it came to that. The Vikings, or the English?

            “But,” Hiccup continued, “Let’s send you on your way first, I think. Y’know, so we aren’t worrying over things that don’t end up happening.”

            “A valid point,” Tom conceded. “How long ‘til we turn out, Edward?”

            The lieutenant’s brows furrowed in concentration. “Another week, I think. I’m not sure if there’s enough water over the bar.”

            “We came in mid-tide,” Tom said, and Hiccup was completely lost as to what they were talking about. “I think if we wait ‘til high tide and a favorable wind, we should be able to cross the bar without incident.”

            “Yes sir. It’s just my job to worry about these things, sir.”

            Tom smiled. “And you do a great job worrying, Ed.” He teased.

            “Okay, well, if that’s settled, I think we’re done here for today, right?” Hiccup said, and looked to the other three.

            “Aye, I think so,” said Tom, and Astrid and Edward joined their assent.

            “Okay. I’ll be at my forge, I think, if anyone needs me.” Hiccup said, and nodded a bit awkwardly, getting up from the table and walking out the door. Astrid followed him out shortly thereafter, leaving Ed and Tom in the little clubhouse.

 

* * *

 

            Edward Abernathy, First Lieutenant of His Majesty’s Ship _Cygnet_ , looked towards his friend and commander with worried trepidation.

            After the door shut, Thomas’ face fell. “How long have you known?” He asked quietly, his voice wavering.

            “I don’t know-“

            “You _damn_ well know what I’m talking about!” Thomas half-shouted. He could feel his face flushing in anger and shame, and he tried to reign in his emotions.

            Edward spread out his hands before him. “Tom, it wasn’t that hard to figure out. You’re not as subtle as you think you are.” He sighed. “Years, probably. At least since we were on the _Orion_.”

            The silence lingered after that, as Thomas marshaled his thoughts, covering his forehead with a hand. “Who else knows, d’you know?”

            “I can’t say-“

            “Then guess.” Thomas said, flatly.

            Edward frowned. “Probably most of the crew, if the rumor mill works as well as it usually does. Probably have known, for almost as long as you’ve been in command.”

            Thomas placed his head in both hands now.

            Edward leaned forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not all that bad,” he told his friend. “I mean, hell. You can forget thinking that I’d lose respect for you over it, because I know that’s what you’re thinking right now. Hell,” he chuckled, “This isn’t the first time I’ve set you up, y’know.”

            “What do you mean?” Thomas asked, dropping his hands.

            “I mean, who introduced you to the Marquess of Conway’s son Charles at that Gala last year, anyways?”

            Thomas blushed at the memory. “Uh, you did, now that I think about that.” That had been an interesting night, certainly, and he had rather fond memories of Charles. That particular young man was a good conversationalist, as well as a few other things.

            “Aye. That I did. And I also happen to know that you stayed at his room that night. I’m not oblivious to these things, you know. Neither is anyone else, for that matter, despite how well you think you hide it. It’s actually pretty adorable that you think you’re good at hiding it, really, but that might just be because I know you so well.”

            “Alright. I’ll accept that, Ed. I’ll also accept the clear insubordination, now that I think about it.”

            Edward smiled. “I know you’re my commander and all, Tom, but you’re my friend first, and that’s not something I forget.”

            “Thank you,” Thomas said softly. His eyes were tearing up a bit, and that was just silly. Proper English gentlemen didn’t get emotions; everyone knew that. “So, - as a friend – what do you think I should do now?”

            “Well, from what happened with the Bo’sun’s trip, I think we ought to go forward on the assumption that we’re not going back home any time soon.” Edward said, and Thomas sighed, but nodded. “So I say go for it. Hell’s bells, the crew will make jokes about it, but they respect you. They’ll figure it’s a good omen that our captain’s got himself a Viking prince, I think.”

            Thomas chuckled. “Viking prince, huh? Those words just don’t seem like they apply to Hiccup.”

            “Yeah,” Edward squeezed Thomas’ shoulder, “they don’t if you know him. But to the crew? He might as well be an Indian princess.”

            Both of them laughed at that. Thomas just couldn’t help picturing the tall, pale, auburn haired young Viking in moccasins and a woven dress. It was incongruous, to say the least.

            Well, best be about it, Thomas thought. He walked out of the little building, and started directing his men to bring back aboard supplies and guns for the voyage.

 

* * *

 

            “Sail ho!” Came the shout, and Hiccup could actually see Tom’s jaw clench as he heard the news. He and Tom were standing on one of the bluffs overlooking the bay, and one of the youngsters – Richardson, if Hiccup remembered correctly – rushed over to point it out to Tom.

            Both he and Tom grabbed their spyglasses and pointed them towards the shape, still hazy in the distance. Only the sail was visible above the horizon, but it had an odd sort of red shape on its square white background, and memory tugged at the corner of his mind as he tried to remember where he’d seen that sail before.

            His face paled as he recognized it. It was the same sail as was on the _Reaper_ , that trapped treasure-ship that they got the Dragon Eye from.

            “You recognize it?” Tom asked, having apparently seen his change in expression.

            Hiccup dropped his hands down, gesturing with the spyglass. “Uh, yeah. It’s the same sail as- well, how do I explain it? Uh, there was a ship, an old ship, with lots of traps, and we found a… well, think of it as a spyglass, except that you shine light through it instead of looking through it, and it, uh, spews out an image on the other side, that changes when you have different dragon’s fire behind it.”

            Tom nodded. “And is this thing important?”

            “Well…” Hiccup started, “Let’s just say that that’s probably one of the reasons why Dagur attacked us when he did, since he knew about it too.”

            Tom frowned some more. “And do you think these people would know about it?”

            “I don’t know,” he admitted, “But I don’t see how they could know about the Edge here-“

            “ _Many sails on the horizon, sir!_ ” A second shout stated. Hiccup and Thomas turned back, looking towards it. Sure enough, another three sails crept over the horizon.

            “All hands! Get to the ship, action stations!” Tom shouted, closing his spyglass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty surprised I had the time to finish this chapter, what with schoolwork and all. Hope you enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary  
> Sloop-of-war: A small, three-masted sailing vessel used for long-range patrolling, harassment of enemy merchant ships, and protection of convoys.  
> Bo’sun: Phonetic pronunciation of Boatswain, the senior rating (non commissioned officer) on board a warship. Charged with keeping crew discipline and passing on orders from the captain.  
> Fore, Main, and Mizzen: the names of the masts, respective to their positions on the vessel.  
> Reefing: Hauling in sails to reduce speed, especially in poor weather.  
> Fighting Tops: Platforms between sections of masts for marines to fire muskets down onto enemy vessels.  
> Gunwales: Solid “railings” on the sides of ships, helps prevent men from going overboard, and provides minimal protection from enemy fire.
> 
> If you have any other questions, feel free to ask in the comments! Also, the ship in the foreground of the painting [here](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/4f/Capture_of_Fort_Louis%2C_Martinique%2C_1794.jpg) is of the same class as the Cygnet in the story.  
> Also, tabs stopped working for the last sixth of the story or so, sorry for the inconvenience.


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